


If You Leave

by buffyx



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-23
Updated: 2012-04-20
Packaged: 2017-11-02 09:53:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 80,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyx/pseuds/buffyx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt and Blaine decide to make a clean break when Kurt leaves for New York, but untangling from each other's lives doesn't prove so simple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This goes kind of AU after 3x11 (Michael). For the purposes of this story, that mostly means ignoring the Finn/Rachel, Quinn, Sue, etc crap.

They were parked outside of Kurt’s house when Blaine said, “I think we should break up.”

For a good ten seconds it was dead silent, save for the rain drumming hard against the windshield, the soft flap-flap of the wipers. Blaine kept his hands taut on the steering wheel. He could feel Kurt staring at him.

“I’m sorry, _what_ did you just say?” Kurt finally sputtered.

“You’re going to New York,” he said, and even though he’d recited this in his head more times than he could count, his voice wasn’t as steady as he wanted it to be. He wanted to sound reasonable. “You’re going to New York, and I’m not. We have to stop pretending that’s not happening—”

“Where is this coming from?” Kurt said. “Who is pretending? We’ve discussed this a million times—”

“No we haven’t. Not realistically.” Now he turned to meet Kurt’s eyes. And held them. “Everything is going to be different. You’re going to have this whole new life, Kurt. There’ll be so many things you’ll be doing and new people you’ll be meeting. And I’m so proud of you, and so excited for you, but I know… I know I won’t be part of that. I can’t be, not when I’m stuck here.”

“We can do long distance,” Kurt insisted. His eyes were too bright in the dim light of the car. “We live in the twenty-first century, Blaine. This is why we have modern technology!” He was hitting full speed now, gearing up, frantic. “We can call every night, and there’s texting and email and Facebook and Skype dates. I mean, Wolf Blitzer did that whole hologram thing with Will.I.Am and you know it’s only a matter of time before Apple makes an app for that. It won’t be ideal, but it’s only for a year. That’s nothing! People do it all the time!”

“What happens if I don’t get into any New York schools next year?”

“Of course you will.”

“We don’t know that,” Blaine said. “Things could happen, and I don’t—I don’t want to tie you down. I don’t want to keep you from doing anything. New York isn’t Lima. There are going to be guys—”

Kurt snorted, derisive. “Doubtful.”

“Don’t give me that. You’re gorgeous, and amazing, and—”

“And it doesn’t _matter_ , because I don’t want anyone else,” Kurt cut in fiercely. “I love _you_ , Blaine.”

“I love you, too.”

“Do you?” Kurt snapped, sounding on the verge of tears. “I’m pretty sure if you did, you wouldn’t be saying this. You don’t even want to _try_.”

Blaine reached across the space between them and grabbed Kurt’s hand. Kurt, thankfully, did not shake him off, even though he still stared daggers behind shining eyes.

“I didn’t know I could love anything the way I love you,” he said. It was the truth, and it was wonderful and painful and frightening all at the same time. A razor-barbed lump formed in his throat, making his eyes prick and burn. “Kurt, what we have… it’s amazing. More than amazing. Thinking about that ending badly while you’re six hundred miles away, or us just drifting apart—”

“But we _won’t_ —”

“We could. And it’d be even worse than—” Blaine had to stop and swallow for a moment. The words felt stuck in his throat. “It’d be even worse than ending it now, while at least we don’t resent each other.”

“I can’t believe you,” Kurt said. He ripped his hand out of Blaine’s grip like he’d been scalded. “You’ve had this decided for a while now, haven’t you? How long ago did you memorize this little speech? Did you make up your mind before prom? Couldn’t wait until after Nationals to let me down easy?”

His voice kept rising and rising until he was shouting, and if Blaine had thought his heart was breaking before, it was nothing compared to the bright jolt of pain that hit him at the sight of Kurt’s face, accusing and betrayed.

“It’s not like that,” he said. “I’m just trying to tell you how I feel—”

“You’re _breaking up with me_!” Kurt exploded. 

“I’m doing it because you won’t!” he shouted right back. Kurt actually recoiled a little, apparently not expecting to be matched in volume, but now that he’d started, Blaine couldn’t make himself stop. “I know you, Kurt. You’ll let this drag out until you end up hating me for it. I know you will.”

It was an awful feeling, being plunged into a sudden quiet and stillness after all the yelling. The air in the car practically vibrated with the tension between them. Blaine’s mouth was bone dry, his stomach roiling. This was all playing out so much worse than he’d allowed himself to imagine. 

“You don’t know me as well as you think you do,” Kurt said lowly, with the sort of finality he used whenever they fought and he was preparing to stalk out of the room. “If you did, you’d know I would never let that happen.”

He tore off his seatbelt and barreled out of the car in one fluid motion, slamming the door shut so hard the whole car rattled. Blaine watched through the window as Kurt dashed up the driveway, through the pouring rain, and disappeared into the front door.

He didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t this.

\--

There was pretty much no worse feeling in the world than having Kurt mad at him. The truth was that Blaine wasn’t great at dealing with people being angry with him in general. He’d never been one of those people who could walk around not caring at all what anyone thought of them—he’d always wished he could be. It’d make life a lot easier, but he just wasn’t built that way. The knowledge that some people out there hated him just for being who he was, without knowing anything about him, had always been hard for him to handle whenever he was confronted with it. It drove him a little crazy to think he couldn’t win everyone in the world over, or at least have the opportunity to try. 

Blaine just liked being liked, maybe— probably— too much. Whenever someone was unhappy with him, it was like there was this jagged, painful knot in his stomach, and it didn’t go away until things had smoothed over. He’d had one of those knots ever since he came out to his dad, though over the years it faded to a dull ache that only twinged every once in a while, as if it’d tied itself up so tight it became smaller and smaller and sank deep inside him, to the very bottom. 

The knot he had now was sharp and so big it was like there was no room for anything else. Because Blaine maybe cared more than he should about being liked, but there was no one he cared more about when it came to that than Kurt. There was no one he cared more about than Kurt, period. He felt like such an idiot. Kurt was furious with him, of course he was, how did Blaine not see that one coming? He should have, but he’d somehow talked himself into believing this would fly over even remotely well, that Kurt would see his side of things, that maybe he’d even thought of the same himself but felt too guilty to bring it up first, so it was a good thing, magnanimous really, for Blaine to give him the out.

He drove home and went straight to his bedroom and called Kurt first thing, hoping maybe he’d cooled off enough to want to talk, but Kurt didn’t pick up. He lay on his bed and stared at the glowing numbers of his alarm clock until an hour had passed, and then tried again. Still no answer. He didn’t leave a voicemail or send any texts because he wasn’t sure what to say; part of him wanted to take it all back if that’s what would make things right again, and the other part of him—the part of him that’d been thinking about this ever since the thick NYADA acceptance packet arrived in Kurt’s mailbox— told him to stick to his guns, because it was the right thing to do, and the right thing wasn’t always easy but it was still _right_.

Even if it didn’t really feel that way now.

In the morning he woke up to his blaring alarm, still curled up on top of the comforter with his phone in hand, feeling groggy and out of sorts. He took a too-long shower, the water turned hotter than usual, in hopes it would wake him up; it didn’t work. All it did was leave him little time to make himself presentable and none at all to stop at the Lima Bean for his daily caffeine fix, and he only made it to his locker with five minutes before the first tardy bell.

He was on his third attempt at remembering his combination when he noticed Rachel swerving around people in the hallway, pinballing towards him in a flash of shiny hair and white teeth.

She took one look at him and said, “Blaine, are you sick? You better not be sick. Nationals is in a week, and we need to be in top form—”

“I’m not sick,” he said. The lock popped open, and he rummaged for his chemistry textbook, sticking his head inside to avoid her scrutiny.

That didn’t derail her, of course. Nothing ever did when Rachel Berry was on a mission. “You look like you’re sick,” she said. “Do you want some Airborne? I’ve been on a strict regimen of three doses a day for the past two months. My immune system is like Fort Knox. I carry it on me, I can lend you some right now—”

“Rachel, I’m fine. Really,” he assured her. “I’m just tired. I didn’t sleep that great.” He didn’t want to think about how rundown he must look if Rachel was staring at him like he’d caught some kind of plague. In an effort to change the subject, he asked, “Have you seen Kurt today?”

Kurt hadn’t called him back, or texted, or anything. It was too early to be sure if he was avoiding Blaine on purpose, but Blaine figured chances were that was exactly the case.

Rachel blinked a few times. “No, not yet,” she said. “Oh, but if you see him first, can you tell him rehearsal’s extended for another hour after school? I talked to Mr. Schue, and we agreed we need to double down this week. I know with finals and— for some of us— graduation coming up, we’re all busy, but Nationals has to be everyone’s top priority. We all have to eat, sleep, and breathe glee. Did you know the week before Bernadette Peters debuted as Annie Oakley on Broadway, she rehearsed for seventy-two hours straight and almost ODed on Throat Coat on opening night? That is the kind of commitment we need if we’re going to win!”

Clearly Rachel had already prioritized glee club over breathing, since she’d gotten all of that out at rapid fire speed without ever once taking a breath. It was pretty impressive.

Blaine nodded and said, “Okay,” but the word was barely out of his mouth before she’d swept past him, already moving on.

Five seconds later, the tardy bell rang.

He closed his locker and leaned his forehead against it. It was going to be a long day.

\--

Kurt was definitely avoiding him. Blaine figured this out through his masterful skills of deduction, and also because Tina flat out told him so.

She cornered him before pre-calc at the pencil sharpener. “I can’t believe you broke up with Kurt!” she hissed loudly.

Blaine hadn’t seen her come up from behind and jumped so high he nearly snapped his pencil in half at the sound of her voice. When he turned around, she was pinning him down with a powerful glare, wielding her textbook like she might thwack him over the head with it at any given moment. It was sort of intimidating, and also weird because he couldn’t remember ever seeing her look so angry at anyone. 

He winced. “I take it you talked to him?”

“Yes,” she said, “and he told me everything. I can’t believe you!”

“How is he? I wanted to talk to him, but I think he’s avoiding me—”

“Of course he’s avoiding you. He’s really upset, Blaine,” she said. “He doesn’t understand it at all, and I don’t either. How could you do this to him?”

“It’s complicated,” he said weakly, and it was a crappy non-answer, but it was already difficult enough to try and explain when he wasn’t literally backed against a wall. He sighed. “You should know how it is—you and Mike are dealing with the same thing, right?”

Her eyes softened at that, like maybe he’d struck a chord with her there, but before she could respond with whatever she was thinking, Mrs. Denison strode to the front of the room and ordered everyone to their seats. Blaine had never scrambled to sit down so fast in his life.

Kurt couldn’t avoid him forever, of course, not when there was glee club. Blaine needed to talk to him, but he didn’t want to do it in front of an audience; he’d been around long enough to see how couple arguments during practice played out, and it was never good. After the last bell rang, he half-jogged down the hall to the choir room early, hoping to catch Kurt alone, but Mr. Schuester was already there sorting through sheet music and muttering to himself. Soon everyone else came filtering in— everyone except for Kurt.

Blaine took the seat next to Mike, because he figured that was his safest option. Partly because the seat was on the opposite side of the room from where Kurt typically sat, and partly because Mike was unconditionally nice to everyone. Mike was neutral. Mike was the Switzerland of glee club.

Mike smiled at him when he sat down, friendly if somewhat confused, and Blaine smiled back—the best he could, anyway—and that was the exact moment Kurt chose to walk into the choir room. Mercedes had her arm linked through his, Sam trailing close behind them. Blaine thought Sam probably didn’t hate him, but it’s not like his loyalty to Mercedes was ever in question, and so by extension he must’ve automatically picked a side.

Everyone had to know by now, but no one said anything, not even Santana. Of course, that might’ve been because all of her attention seemed to be focused on fighting with Rachel over the set list for Nationals. He tuned out their bickering and instead snuck glances in Kurt’s general direction, hoping to catch his eye. But every time he looked, Kurt was faced away from him, head bent close to Mercedes’s as he spoke to her, either having a very engrossing conversation or hell-bent on ignoring Blaine’s existence.

When he tore his gaze back to the front, he could tell something was about to go down. Santana was taking out her earrings and handing them off to Brittany while Rachel stood with her hands on her hips, arguing the merits of singing Barbra versus Winehouse, though Blaine had no idea how anyone could compare the two. He would’ve offered to hold Rachel’s earrings, but she wasn’t wearing any. Mostly though he hoped Mr. Schuester would intervene before things escalated any further.

“Guys, guys, settle down,” Mr. Schuester said, waiting, as usual, until Santana had stepped up into Rachel’s face before breaking it up. He put a hand on Santana’s shoulder and nudged her back to her seat. “Let’s forget about the set list for a minute. I need to hand out the permission slips.”

Nationals was being held in Chicago this year— close enough for them to take the train instead of flying, but a big enough city to add some excitement, even if it wasn’t quite as epic as New York. Blaine had been looking forward to it; he and Kurt had done some online research, talked about hitting up the shops in Wicker Park and riding the water taxi, but those plans probably weren’t going to work if Kurt wouldn’t so much as make eye contact.

He got his first chance to talk to Kurt after rehearsal let out. Everyone else had pretty much bolted from the room, exhausted from two hours of running through new choreography Mike was teaching them all, but Kurt took his time, folding a sweater and tucking it into his bag. Blaine steeled his shoulders and took a deep breath as he approached. There was no easy way to have this conversation, but it needed to be done.

“Hey,” he started when they were finally alone.

Kurt slipped the strap of his bag over his shoulder and straightened, regarding Blaine with a guarded look. “Hi,” he said stiffly.

“You really picked up the combination fast,” Blaine offered. Yes, he was resorting to compliments in hopes of softening Kurt up for this talk. Yes, it was a little pathetic. He didn’t care. “You’ve gotten really good. I mean, not that you weren’t already—”

“Yes, well, somehow Mike has exorcised the shimmy out of me this year,” Kurt replied, studying the tops of his shoes as if they were the most riveting thing in the room. They did have rhinestones glued over the toes, so maybe they were. When he finally drew up his gaze to look at Blaine, Blaine almost he wished he hadn’t; he looked so distant. “Did you want something?”

“I feel bad about last night,” he said. “I’m sorry. That’s not how I wanted things to go.”

One eyebrow arched, but the rest of Kurt’s face stayed the same. “How, exactly, did you want it to go?”

“Differently. I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

“Oh?” Kurt said. Something in his expression changed. Opening. Blaine wanted to grab on to that opening and stretch it until this impassive mask of his was torn away.

“You were right, it is something I’ve been thinking about for a while,” he said all in a rush, “and it wasn’t fair to just spring it on you like that. I should’ve brought it up earlier—”

And just like that Kurt’s face closed off again.

“Earlier?” he echoed. “So you really do feel that way. You do want to break up with me.”

“No, what I’m doing is trying to look at the bigger picture here and be realistic—”

“Stop using that word! Stop acting like I’m some hopeless _idiot_ for thinking we could be together—”

“That’s not what I’m saying. I don’t think you’re an idiot—”

“I’m sorry I was silly enough to believe I mattered enough to you to want to try,” Kurt said, blinking rapidly in that way Blaine knew meant he was on the brink of tears. 

“You matter to me.” Blaine went to grasp Kurt’s hands, but Kurt stepped back, out of reach. He let his arms fall uselessly to his sides. “You matter to me,” he insisted. “More than anything. You know that. It’s why I don’t want to stand in your way. The last thing I ever want to do is hurt you.”

“Then don’t,” Kurt said brokenly. A solitary tear slipped out, and Blaine couldn’t help but lean in, brush it away with his thumb. Kurt didn’t stop him.

He let his hand linger on Kurt’s cheek. “It’s not that simple.”

Kurt blinked, and as if on cue, his eyes went dry. Blaine could see it happening, Kurt shutting him out as he took on the body language of a brick wall. “Then I guess we have nothing more to talk about,” he replied, and pushed past Blaine, headed for the door.

Blaine stared after him, panic rising in his chest. Watching Kurt go felt like sand slipping through his fingers.

“Kurt,” he said, plaintive, but Kurt walked off like he hadn’t heard. Didn’t even look back.

There was more to talk about, but clearly he was beyond listening.

\--

Everyone had an opinion.

Santana said, “So I heard you broke it off with Hummel. Too bad. You two were my favorite lesbian couple.”

Artie said, “I’ve been there, my friend. Actually, I’ve always been the dumpee, so… not really. But yo, if you need a wingman for a rebound, hit me up. I’m down for that.”

Quinn said, “Well, I think you made the right decision. Trying to hold on to high school like it’s the end all, be all is a bad idea. Trust me, I know.”

Brittany gave him a piece of paper; on it was a drawing of a unicorn with black triangular eyebrows and a bowtie, standing under a rainbow. “Lord Tubbington wanted me to give this to you,” she said solemnly. “I’d be mad at you for what you did to Kurt, but you’re a unicorn too, and unicorns are supposed to stick together. It’s the unicorn code. You can look it up in the handbook.”

Mike just patted him on the shoulder and gave him a lot of sympathetic looks.

“I fully understand the heartbreak that comes with losing your soul mate, but as I told Kurt, I hope you’ll take my advice and channel that anguish into your performance,” Rachel told him. “Why let so much intense emotion go to waste?”

Except Blaine wasn’t feeling anything intensely. He just felt numb. And miserable. It sucked not seeing Kurt in all the places he’d gotten used to seeing him, meeting at lockers and Lima Bean dates. It sucked when he did see Kurt, glimpses of him in the hall, sitting across the choir room, watching him sing, knowing there was this distance between them.

Everything just sucked, all of the time.

The only one who didn’t have anything to say was Finn. At first Blaine assumed he was getting the same silent treatment Mercedes was currently subjecting him to, but that wasn’t it; Finn still looked at him, and still talked to him, just not about Kurt.

At least, not until the day before they left for Nationals. It started when ten minutes into rehearsal, Kurt rose from his seat and said, “Mr. Schue, if I may?” and moved to stand at the front of the room. He nodded curtly to Brad, and the piano began to play, and then he was singing. It was Still Hurting from The Last Five Years—a song about heartbreak, lost love. Kurt did what Kurt did best, infusing all of his emotion into it, laying his heart bare, and he directed it all at Blaine.

It was the most Kurt had looked at him all week. Blaine could see everything written on his face, hear it in his voice, and being on the receiving end of it was almost too much to bear. He sat rooted to his seat, unable to look away, even as Kurt’s voice penetrated through the miserable fog he’d been drifting through like a knife twisting in his heart. He understood why they called it heartbreak; it was like something inside his chest had snapped and cracked into pieces.

Kurt’s voice shook slightly on the last note, and when he was finished, he just stood there, looking spent with emotion. No one reacted immediately, as if stunned into silence.

Finally Mr. Schuester cleared his throat awkwardly and said, “That was… very emotional, Kurt. Thank you for sharing it with us.”

Blaine could feel his hands trembling from where they clutched the sides of his chair. He could feel people’s eyes on him. And Kurt’s. 

Suddenly he just couldn’t be there a second longer. He didn’t think about it. He just left. He wasn’t sure if anyone called after him, and it didn’t matter because he didn’t care anyway, he had to leave. He had to go be somewhere else.

He made it halfway to his locker before it hit him. Literally. In the face. A cherry-flavored slushie, so painfully cold it stung his skin. He was too busy sputtering and blinking it out of his eyes to see who’d done it, but the guffaws echoing off the lockers behind him seemed to belong to the usual suspects, those brain-dead morons from the hockey team.

Blaine hadn’t recovered enough from the icy shock to move when he heard a familiar voice say, “C’mon,” a firm but gentle hand steering him toward the bathroom.

It was Finn, guiding him to the sinks and turning on the tap. He cranked out some paper towel from the dispenser, folded it, and handed it to Blaine wordlessly.

“Thanks,” Blaine said. He bent his head down and splashed warm water on his face, and when he glanced up, he met Finn’s eyes in the mirror. “Look, I’m okay. It was just your standard issue slushie. It’s not like I’m going to have to go the hospital again or anything, so you don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”

Finn fixed him with a strange look. “Why wouldn’t I want to?”

Did he really have to spell it out? Apparently so, because Finn kept staring, brow furrowed.

“I just figured you can’t be too happy with me right now,” he went on. “After everything with Kurt…”

“I don’t really want to get in the middle of that, dude,” Finn said with a shrug. “He’s my brother, you’re my friend…”

And it was true; they were friends. Somewhere along the way Finn had become more to Blaine than just his boyfriend’s stepbrother. It was funny to think of how much could change in a year.

“Besides,” Finn said, “I know you’re probably getting enough grief from everyone else. You don’t wanna hear what I think.”

Weirdly, despite all of the unsolicited—and unwanted— commentary from bystanders Blaine had endured all week, he really did want to know.

“Actually I kind of do,” he said.

Finn leaned his back against one of the sinks, arms folded over his chest. “When Rachel and I got back together last year, we agreed it’d only be until graduation,” he said. “I always knew after high school she’d be going to New York and I wouldn’t. And it’s taken me awhile, but I’m okay with that. That’s who she’s meant to be, and I’m meant to be someone else, and it’s not better or worse, it’s just how it is. I can’t hold her down. It’d be selfish of me to even try, because her life is gonna be a lot bigger than this town and a lot bigger than me. Being with someone as special as Rachel means knowing you’ll have to share her with the world. Otherwise I’m just being greedy.”

There was no resentment or bitterness in Finn’s voice, or even resignation. Just thoughtfulness, and maybe a touch of pride.

“Like, I know it’s different with you and Kurt,” he continued, looking Blaine in the eye now. “You’re more like he is. You want the same things. But I don’t think he and Rachel really get what it’s like for us. How it feels to be the one left behind.”

Blaine swallowed. “I’m just trying to do the right thing for him.”

“No, man, I think it’s more than that,” Finn said. “I think you’re trying to protect yourself too.”

Blaine ducked his head as he patted his face dry with the paper towel. Some of the slushie had trickled under his shirt collar, already drying on his skin in sticky patches. If Finn was right about that, it meant the unselfish choice was actually a selfish one. It meant no matter what he did or didn’t do, it was going to hurt.

“Love really sucks sometimes, doesn’t it?” he said, mostly speaking to himself, but Finn grinned at him, understanding.

“Yup,” he agreed. “Hey, I’ve got an extra shirt in my gym locker. Want me to go get it for you?”

He shook his head. Anything of Finn’s would go down to his knees, anyway. “No thanks,” he said. “Do you think Rachel would kill me if I skipped out on the rest of rehearsal and went home?”

“Nah, go ahead. I’ll take care of Rachel,” Finn assured him. He clapped Blaine on the shoulder. “Just come ready tomorrow. I’m counting on you to bring it at Nationals.”

“I will,” he promised. “We aren’t coming back without that trophy.”

The show would go on, the way it always did. Maybe there was no way to win with Kurt, but at least he could help them win this.

\--

It was only a six hour train ride from Lima to Chicago, and it went a lot faster since they’d left so early in the morning that everyone just wanted to sleep the whole way. Less than half an hour after the train had rolled off from the station, Sam passed out with his face planted in the middle of the comic book he’d spread out on the tray table. Blaine didn’t mind; at least he wasn’t snoring. 

He rested his head against the window, watching the scenery whizz by in dull browns and greys and greens, and it seemed like he’d only closed his eyes for a minute before they were pulling into Union Station. Next to him Sam roused, sitting up and wiping off the drool he’d left on the page of his issue of Nightwing with the cuff of his letterman jacket. Blaine tucked the copy of Vogue he’d been leafing through before he fell asleep into the bag at his feet and shuffled off the train with everyone else.

Mr. Schuester and Ms. Pillsbury shepherded everyone from the platform and through the concourse, until they’d all gathered in the main hall. As they counted heads, Ms. Pillsbury marking names off on a clipboard, Blaine yawned and looked around. Everyone looked a little disheveled and sleepy from the travel, except for Rachel, who was fluttering around excitedly.

He looked over at where Kurt sat on one of the long wooden benches with Mercedes and Quinn, one hand on the handle of his luggage and the other gesticulating as he spoke. For a moment they locked eyes. Kurt seemed to freeze mid-sentence, but then he looked away hastily. Blaine’s stomach churned.

An elbow in his side snapped him out of it.

“Do you have any ideas?” Mike asked.

Blaine blinked. “Ideas for what?”

“We were just saying, we need to show Rory the finest in American cuisine before they ship him back to Leprechaun Land,” Puck explained. 

“Oh, Brittany’s family already took me to McDonald’s,” Rory said cheerfully. “The golden nuggets of chicken were delicious.”

“What? No, dude, that’s not real food!” Puck protested. 

“Yeah, what we need is to find some prime Chicago pizza,” Sam said. “That’s what this city is famous for.”

“That and Al Capone,” Artie added as Mr. Schue and Ms. Pillsbury led them outside to Clinton street.

Rory leaned against one of the columns and looked around, disappointed. “I thought Chicago was supposed to be famous for its wind, but there’s not even a breeze.”

They wound up splitting into cabs to take to the hotel, and somehow in the ensuing chaos Blaine found himself sandwiched between Sugar and Kurt. He wasn’t even trying, honestly, but there was no room, and he ended up half in Kurt’s lap. When Kurt realized where he was stuck, his face registered some mild panic, but then he closed his mouth in a tight line and turned his head to stare stubbornly out the window. 

Between that and Sugar oversharing on Rory’s embarrassing seduction attempts, it was the most uncomfortable cab ride of Blaine’s life. Not that he’d ridden in taxis all that often, but still. It was enough awkward to last him a lifetime.

At the hotel, Mr. Schuester signed them in and doled out room keys. “Boys in one room, girls in the other,” he announced, and then stopped when his eyes landed on Kurt and Blaine. Suddenly he looked uncertain. “Um…”

“I’ll room with the girls,” Kurt volunteered immediately.

Mr. Schuester nodded, visibly relieved not to have to solve this one on his own. “All right then,” he said, clasping his hands together. “Before you all go up, let’s go over the ground rules first.”

The ground rules involved, among other things, no underage drinking, no breaking and entering, no destroying hotel property, no going out alone, and no excessive ordering off the room service menu or taking absolutely _anything_ out of the mini bars. Mr. Schuester leveled a stern look at Puck when he rattled off that last one, and it made Blaine wonder what exactly had happened when New Directions went to New York last year.

They trudged up to the rooms, and Blaine collapsed on the nearest bed, not planning to move for at least the next five hours. All the other guys weren’t even bothering to unpack, instead just taking a few minutes to change and piss (with the door open; sometimes Blaine forgot how gross teenage boys could be). 

“You coming, Blaine?” Mike asked.

He shook his head. “I think I’m just going to hang out here. Get some sleep.”

“It’s three o’clock in the afternoon,” Sam pointed out. “I don’t even get why you’re so bummed out. You’re the one who broke it off, right?”

“Yeah, man,” Puck chimed in. “Enough of the moping. When Zizes dumped my ass, you know what was the first thing I did? Went to Lowe’s, hung around until some chicks came in on their own, helped them pick out power tools, and used their gratitude over having a man in their lives who cared to _get laid_. Hardware stores are total cougar bait.”

“That’s not actually true,” Finn said. “The first thing you did was get drunk and leave me, like, ten voicemails crying about how Lauren Zizes was your soul mate and you’d never love again.”

“Shut up, Finn!” snapped Puck, kicking him in the shin. “I’m trying to make a point here!”

“That’s fascinating and all, Puck,” Blaine said, “but I don’t think it’s relevant to my situation.”

“Dude, there’s gotta be way more gay guys in Chicago than Lima,” Puck pressed. “I bet you could find someone to bang the sad out of you in ten minutes.”

“Puckerman’s got a point. You might want to take advantage and get your swerve on while you can,” Artie said.

“Lay off, you guys,” Finn said. He looked increasingly uncomfortable with the conversation, but Blaine didn’t think it was about the gay sex topic so much as the sex-life-of-the-guy-who-dated-his-brother thing. “Blaine, I can hang here with you if you don’t want to go out.”

It was sweet of Finn to offer, even if it was obvious he didn’t really want to stay behind. That was okay; Blaine didn’t want the company anyway. He really did just plan on switching on the television until he fell asleep. Nothing he needed anyone else around for.

“No, seriously, it’s fine,” he insisted. “I’ll see you guys later.”

None of them wasted time making any more attempts to convince him after that. When they left, Mike was the last one out, and he gave Blaine a long look over his shoulder before he shut the door behind him. And then Blaine was alone.

He stretched out on the bed, tucking a pillow under his chest, and flipped through the channels on the tv until he landed at the start of a Golden Girls rerun, which was great because he got to sing along to the theme song. It was a good episode, too, the one where Blanche wins tickets to a movie premiere party with Burt Reynolds.

The girls had just gotten mistaken for prostitutes when there was a knock at the door. Blaine muted it and padded to the door, assuming it’d be one of the guys realizing they’d left their room key by accident or maybe Mr. Schuester checking in, but instead he opened it to see Tina standing there.

“Hi,” she said, smiling. She had on a dark red dress over black tights, purse slung over one shoulder like she was all ready for a night on the town.

“Hey Tina,” he said. “Were you looking for Mike? He left a little while ago—”

“No, I’m here for you,” she said. Blaine raised his eyebrows, and she grinned wider. “I have standing orders from Mike to get you out of this hotel room by any means necessary.”

He should’ve known Mike was up to something. It was always the quiet ones.

“That’s nice of you, but you don’t have to do that,” he told her. “I kind of wanted some alone time.”

She peered around him into the room. “You’re watching The Golden Girls?”

“It’s a great show,” he said defensively.

“That’s not the point, Blaine,” she said. “You can watch it anytime you want. We’re in Chicago. You should be out enjoying yourself like everybody else.”

“I’m not really in the mood.”

“Look, Kurt and the girls already took off shopping, and Mr. Schue said we can’t go anywhere alone, so if you don’t agree to go with me, I’m stuck here too,” she said. “Come out with me. I promise I’m not going to give you a hard time about Kurt or anything. I won’t even mention his name. We’ll just go out, do something fun, and have a good time.” She grabbed his arm and tugged. “Please?”

She stuck out her lower lip in a pout, swinging his arm back and forth, and Blaine couldn’t resist.

“All right, fine,” he agreed, and she beamed so brightly in return he figured it had to be worth it. “Give me five minutes.”

\--

They took the red line to Grand Avenue and walked to the Navy Pier—it was a mile away from the stop and they had to ask for directions twice to be sure they were going the right way, but Blaine didn’t really mind. It only took ten minutes of being outside for him to be grateful Tina had successfully cajoled him into leaving the hotel. It felt nice to be out here, walking the city streets, taking in the buildings and the people. Better than being cooped up in a hotel room.

Tina looped her arm through his and kept him tucked close to her side as they strolled down the boardwalk. That was nice too. 

“Are you nervous about tomorrow?” she asked after they’d stopped at a popcorn stand and went to sit on a bench by the water.

Blaine shrugged. “No, not really.”

It’d been a long time since he’d gotten nerves before a performance. Maybe that made him sound cocky. Maybe he was, a little. In any case, the thought of being onstage, in front of a crowd, only made him feel itchy with anticipation. When he performed, it was like stepping outside of himself and being someone else for a little while. Everything else fell away.

“I think we’re going to do really well,” he added. “Everyone’s worked hard. We’re ready for this. I’m excited.”

“It’s a little sad though, isn’t it?” Tina said. “Our last competition all together. It’s going to be weird next year without Finn and Rachel and Mercedes and—” She stopped, catching herself. “…everyone else.”

He gave a noncommittal hum and looked past her, out across the water where the skyline jutted into a blue sky. The last thing he wanted to do was think about what it would be like at McKinley next year without Kurt. Every time he tried to imagine it, it just felt… wrong. 

Tina looked at him, but she didn’t ask what he was thinking. She probably could already tell. He couldn’t decide if that was better or worse than her having to ask.

She reached into her greasy paper bag, tossed a piece of popcorn into the air and caught it on her tongue. Then she leapt off the bench to her feet and pulled him up with her. “Come on,” she said, “I want to go on the Ferris wheel.”

\--

They rode the Ferris wheel twice, ate dinner at a place called Harry Caray’s, and thought about taking one of the boat tours but vetoed it after seeing the ticket prices. Instead they doubled back to the front of the park and browsed some souvenir shops along the way; apparently Tina’s mom was, like, obsessed with collecting snow globes and had demanded Tina return with one. Thankfully there was a whole row of them in the fourth place they stopped. Blaine picked them up and shook them one by one while Tina tried to decide which her mother would like best.

He didn’t plan on buying anything for himself, but on the way to the register he caught sight of a rack of blindingly bright yellow bowties with little red Ferris wheels printed all over the fabric. Exactly his style. 

The bow tie ended up being what broke the silence between him and Kurt. Well, sort of. What really happened was when he and Tina came back to the hotel (via taxi this time; Blaine had felt very grown up hailing one on his own), Kurt and the girls were waiting in the lobby for the elevator, arms laden with shopping bags. Tina immediately flocked to Mercedes and Sugar to examine their purchases, and Blaine stood a little outside of the circle, staring at the ceiling so he wouldn’t have to look at Kurt not looking at him.

The elevator doors opened up, and he stepped inside first. And then just as they were about to close, all of the girls scurried back out.

“Quinn forgot she wanted to swing by the gift shop,” Mercedes explained over her shoulder. She had that glib look on her face that meant she was lying through her teeth. “We’ll see you guys later!”

Before either of them could dive out after the girls, the doors shut with a ding, leaving them there alone.

Kurt scowled at the closed doors. “They totally planned this.”

“Clearly,” Blaine said.

Kurt whipped around to face him. He looked prepared to say something cutting, but he just stared instead. Blaine wondered if Kurt was just going to look at him like that the whole ride, but then he said, “That’s a new bow tie, isn’t it?”

Blaine’s hands flew to his neck, and he straightened the bow tie a little nervously. Tina had put it on for him during the cab ride over. “Too much?” he asked.

“Yes,” Kurt said. “But you pull it off.”

He reached over and pushed the floor button, then took a step back. Now it was Blaine’s turn to stare.

“Does this mean you’re acknowledging my existence now?” he asked. He meant for the question to come off more lightheartedly than it did. Instead it came out a little accusatory.

Kurt looked at him, incredulous. “You’re joking, right? You’re the one who’s been avoiding _me_.”

“What are you talking about? I tried talking to you, and you all but told me to drop dead!”

“Well, I’m sorry if I needed one day to process the fact that you were _breaking up with me_. And then I sang you that song, and you ran out of the room!”

“What was I supposed to do? You were clearly too mad to want to talk to me!”

“Clearly I wouldn’t have been so mad if you just talked to me in the first place!”

They stopped, glaring at each other, and after a second Blaine felt himself deflate.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing,” he said. He rubbed a hand across his forehead. “It’s my fault. I’m doing this all wrong.”

“Maybe you could start by telling me why you’re doing it at all,” Kurt said in a clipped voice.

“I think it just finally sank in. What it’ll be like next year,” Blaine tried to explain. “Don’t you think New York is going to change things for us?”

Kurt’s face faltered before he settled on an answer. “I guess I didn’t really think about it like that,” he said. “I just assumed… I thought maybe it didn’t have to.” He paused. “My dad agrees with you.”

“He does?” This knowledge left Blaine a little disappointed, even though he knew it shouldn’t.

“He said maybe it was the right idea, giving each other some space. That I’m going to be going through so many new adjustments that it might be better not to have the added responsibility of a long-distance boyfriend.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him I don’t consider our relationship a responsibility,” he said. He sighed. “But then I thought about it, and… it is, isn’t it? I do feel responsible for you. We’re responsible for each other.”

“I want to do the right thing,” Blaine said, a little desperately.

“So do I. Whatever that may end up being,” said Kurt. “I guess we agree on that much.”

Blaine started to reach out for him, but then drew his hand back, thinking better of it. He wasn’t sure if Kurt would be comfortable with that kind of gesture at this moment.

“So where does that leave us?” he asked.

The elevator pinged, the doors sliding open. They’d reached their floor.

Kurt stepped out into the carpeted hallway and turned around. “I don’t know,” he said simply. “I need to think about it.”

\--

Apparently Jesse was still pretty mad about New Directions embarrassing themselves at Nationals last year and ruining his would-be show choir consultant career before it even had a chance to get off the ground. He’d lucked out with Vocal Adrenaline, who were so desperate for a replacement coach that they’d hired him despite his McKinley ties.

He definitely had something to prove and an axe to grind. 

Jesse tracked them down in the lobby the morning of the competition, weaving through all the other gathered show choirs with the sharp-eyed intensity of a hawk zeroing in on its helpless prey. 

“I thought I would come by to say, may the best show choir win,” he said. He looked down at them as if they were lucky to be breathing the same oxygen as him. “Which is of course Vocal Adrenaline. I look forward to your crushing defeat at my hands.”

“You can quit with the intimidation techniques, Jesse,” Rachel said with a flip of her hair. “We’re going to win, because New Directions has something Vocal Adrenaline never will.”

“A combined IQ score below one hundred?”

“No, we have _heart_ ,” she snapped. “We’ve put in the work this year, but what’s really going to give us the edge over your little army of performing robots is the fact that we actually _care_ about what we’re singing.”

“Ah, yes, who needs technical proficiency or vocal prowess when you have that?” Jesse drawled dryly. “What’s the strategy this time? Is Finn going to hump your leg mid-performance like a homely Saint Bernard attempting to mount a Chihuahua?” 

Finn’s face twisted with anger. He started forward, but Rachel stopped him with a hand to his chest.

“Don’t,” she said quietly. “He isn’t worth it.”

Jesse’s eyes flashed at that, but if he planned any retort, it was interrupted by Mr. Schuester stepping to the front and sticking out his hand.

“You’re right, Jesse. May the best show choir win,” he said civilly.

For a second Blaine wondered if Jesse was going to punch Mr. Schuester in the face, but instead his expression smoothed over and he shook Mr. Schuester’s hand firmly with his own.

“Good luck,” he said, then looked past Mr. Schuester to the rest of the group, gaze lingering. “You’re going to need it.”

After Jesse turned on his heel and stalked off, Puck elbowed Finn in the side and said, “Seriously dude, if you try groping Rachel in the middle of a song again and screw this up for all of us, I am going to kick your ass.”

“It wasn’t groping!” Rachel protested. “It was a beautiful, irrepressible expression of love in its purest form.” When everyone stared at her, she cleared her throat. “And it will not be happening again. Obviously.”

“Yeah, what she said,” Finn said, putting an arm over her shoulders. “Anyway, there’s no point in dwelling on the past. We’re here now, and we’re gonna win this thing.”

“Finn’s right, guys. We need to focus on today,” Mr. Schuester said. He clapped his hands together. “Let’s pull it in!”

\--

So Mr. Schuester gave them his version of an inspiring pep talk—his usual stuff about believing in themselves and remembering how far they’d come and making it all count—and had them all form a circle and put their hands in. And maybe it was a little cheesy, but Blaine had to admit he really did enjoy it. It made them feel like a team, and it made him want more than ever to do well today, to come back to Lima with that first place trophy, knowing that for many of them this was their last shot. He wanted it for them just as much as he wanted it for himself.

Their set wasn’t until later in the day, so they all sat in the auditorium to watch their competitors. Blaine was pretty confident about their chances, but he had to admit the other choirs were good. Really good. It was like a never-ending blur of flash and tight choreography and strong voices. Sure, some groups were better than others, but even the weakest was still pretty great.

After a particularly impressive medley of Elton John songs performed by The Treblemakers from Duluth, Mercedes leaned over to him and muttered, “Damn, that was good.”

He glanced to his right where Puck was wiping his wet face off with his sleeve. It was the third time he’d cried over a performance in the past hour. 

Blaine bent his head close to Mercedes. “It was,” he agreed, “but we’re better.”

He grinned at her, and she smiled back, patted the top of his hand with hers before returning her attention to the stage.

Intermission came, and they all gathered backstage; everyone else went to hang around the wings of the stage so they could watch the other choirs from behind the curtain, but Blaine found an empty corner in the green room, took the opportunity to stretch his limbs a little and do a few neck rolls.

He was bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet and shaking out his arms when Kurt came charging up to him, eyes ablaze and determined.

“Kurt,” he said, stopping. “Did you—”

“I need to tell you something,” Kurt said, “and I need you to not say anything until I’m finished.”

Blaine obediently closed his mouth.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen after graduation. All I know is I have been miserable this past week without you,” he continued. “I was talking to Finn last night, and he said something—it was this whole metaphor comparing love to a sandwich, which I know sounds stupid, but— okay, it kind of was, but anyway, that’s not important. The point is, if us breaking up when I leave for New York, or at least… putting things on hold, is what’s best for us, then fine. That’s what we’ll do, and we can decide it together. But we still have the summer, and I don’t want to waste it. I want to spend every minute with you that I can until I can’t. I want to be with you while I’m here, and I don’t want to go out on that stage today without knowing whether or not you feel the same way.” He stopped, determination giving way to nervousness. “Okay, you can talk now.”

“Yes,” Blaine said immediately. “I want that too. Kurt, I want—”

Before he could finish the sentence, Kurt caught his face between his hands and cut him off with a kiss. Blaine returned it with equal vigor, hands grasping at the front of Kurt’s dress shirt to pull him in. It felt like a release, all of the tension he’d been carrying around sliding right off of his shoulders, and for a moment he didn’t care at all about the competition, just wanted to stay here and melt against Kurt for as long as possible. When he opened his mouth to deepen the kiss, Kurt made a happy, involuntary noise in the back of his throat and pressed in even closer.

They were interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat. Kurt twisted around in Blaine’s arms to see everyone grouped behind them, staring.

“Dude,” Puck said, eloquent as ever.

Tina’s face lit up. “Does this mean you guys are back together?”

“Maybe they’re just practicing French,” Brittany said.

“Kurt, Blaine, we’re all very happy for you—” Rachel started.

“Speak for yourself, Berry,” Santana cut in. “I’m not. I don’t care.”

“—but I do hope this means you’ve resolved your romantic drama and will be able to focus solely on giving your best performance,” she finished.

“What Rachel means is, you’re not going to mack onstage, are you?” Puck asked.

“Let it go, Puck. No one is going to be kissing anyone out there,” Finn said. He eyed Kurt and Blaine, suddenly a little uncertain. “Um, right guys?”

Kurt took a step backward, out of Blaine’s reach, and Blaine had to fight down the urge to pull him back. He smoothed out the wrinkles from his shirt and patted the top of his coiffed-but-now-slightly-rumpled hair with a delicate sniff, not quite meeting anyone’s eyes.

“As much as I’d love to sit here and face the inquisition, let me remind you all we have a performance to put on,” he said coolly. “I’m going to go find a mirror and do some last minute retouching.”

“Yeah, I think we all know what _you’ll_ be touching,” Santana smirked.

Kurt shot her a withering glare and quickly left the room, head held high.

Tina turned back to Blaine. “But seriously, are you two back together now? Because if so, Mike owes me ten bucks.”

He paused from his fruitless attempt at fixing his loosened tie to cast her a disbelieving look. “You had a bet going?” he asked. He glanced over at Mike, who at least had the decency to look sheepish. “Wait, does this mean you bet against us?”

“No, I just thought you’d wait until after Nationals,” Mike said with a shrug.

“Speaking of, we got about five minutes before we have to get our asses onstage,” Mercedes pointed out. “Think you can wipe that smug googly-eyed look off your face long enough to get ready?”

Blaine bit his lip to try and stop himself from grinning like a doofus. It didn’t work very well.

“I’m ready,” he assured her. He’d never felt more ready in his life.

\--

When they made the callback for the top ten, Kurt was the first person he reached for. Kurt hugged him back so hard he could barely breathe.

When it was announced they had won, it was Kurt who reached for him first. Blaine hadn’t even fully processed that it was their name being read aloud before he was greeted with an armful of Kurt. He laughed into Kurt’s neck, swung him around giddily and looked over his shoulder at where Mr. Schuester stood, smiling proudly with tears in his eyes, Rachel jumping up and down without abandon as she covered her mouth with both hands, Finn looking like someone had hit him upside the head with a two-by-four, Puck and Artie bumping fists, Brittany and Santana twirling in each other’s arms. Sam and Rory were pumping their arms in the air as they partook in some kind of ridiculous victory dance, Sugar had her arms thrown around Mercedes and Quinn, and Mike and Tina clung to one another, rocking back and forth.

The shared joy was so strong it was almost palpable—Blaine breathed it in, tightened his arms around Kurt, mouthed the words _We did it_ and _I love you_ into Kurt’s skin, even though he knew Kurt wouldn’t be able to hear it over the thunderous applause of the audience. 

It wasn’t the greatest moment of Blaine’s life, but it definitely ranked somewhere up there.

\--

On the train back to Lima, Kurt sat next to him, slipped his hand into Blaine’s and rested his cheek on his shoulder. Blaine leaned his head against Kurt’s, looked down at their interlocked fingers.

They didn’t speak, but that was okay. Blaine was just happy to have something to hold on to.

 

***

 

It felt like the school year should’ve ended right after Nationals, but there were still finals to study for. Studying with Kurt was never a good idea. Too many distractions. How was Blaine supposed to focus on Faraday’s laws of electrolysis when he had Kurt on his bed in painted-on jeans?

He watched as Kurt read from the textbook spread in front of him, worrying his lower lip and twirling a pencil in his fingers. Kurt’s free hand reached up to trace absent patterns up and down his throat, dipping all the way to his collar bone, and Blaine had to just sit there for a second and enjoy the show. Sometimes Kurt would do something completely innocuous like that and have no idea of the effect it had on him. Not that it took much for Blaine to think about having sex—he did have a teenager’s libido and all—but still.

He stared back down at his notes when Kurt glanced over, but not fast enough.

“I can’t believe graduation is in a week,” Kurt said, and looked at Blaine in that way he did when he was about to say something serious.

Before he could, however, Blaine leaned over to kiss him. Kurt tipped his face up to receive it, closed his eyes the second their lips touched, dropped the pen from his fingers. When they broke apart to breathe, he smiled against Blaine’s mouth.

“What about chemistry?” he asked. “Don’t you need to study?”

Blaine grinned and kissed his way up Kurt’s neck; Kurt helpfully turned his head to the side to give him better access.

“I’m more of a hands-on learner,” he said.

They kissed for a while longer, rolling around on the bed and knocking the textbooks and notebooks to the floor in the process. Blaine wanted to touch him everywhere. Hands in Kurt’s hair, skimming down shoulders to his sides. Kurt wriggled under him, slid his fingers beneath Blaine’s shirt and over his stomach, making Blaine gasp a little into his mouth at the contact. He wasn’t passive about it all, meeting Blaine’s every touch with one of his own.

There was one problem: Kurt’s clothes. The belt was a struggle but not impossible, unlike the tightly knotted tie, though Blaine could at least push that out of the way. But the shirt was something else—there were too many buttons, and he didn’t want to stop kissing Kurt long enough to give its removal his full attention, except after ten minutes of trying he still hadn’t managed to work more than the first two open.

When it became clear it was a futile endeavor, he gave up and collapsed against Kurt’s side, laughing into his shoulder.

“Whoever designed that shirt should market it to abstinent teens,” he groaned. “They’d make a killing selling it as a very effective upper body chastity belt.”

“Forgive me for not dressing for the occasion. I was under the mistaken impression actual studying would be involved,” Kurt said. He shifted to his side, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at Blaine. “But it’s good that we stopped. We’ve been doing this too much lately.”

“Making out?”

“Not that so much as… using it as an avoidance technique.”

For a moment Blaine considered playing dumb, but he knew exactly what Kurt meant. Ever since their return from Nationals, it seemed every time either one of them so much as tiptoed around the subject of their future, they’d instead end up derailing the conversation by kissing until the topic fell by the wayside.

It wasn’t the most mature behavior ever, but it had its share of upsides.

“Maybe I just find you completely irresistible,” Blaine teased, slinging his arm over Kurt’s waist and rubbing his thumb against his hip. “Did you ever think of that?”

Kurt’s eyes landed on Blaine’s lips and stayed there. Blaine tilted his head up, moving in slowly, but just as he was about to meet Kurt’s mouth with his—

“Blaine, we can’t just jump each other every time we’re on the brink of a serious conversation about our relationship,” Kurt said, stopping him in his tracks.

Blaine shoved down the flutter of mild panic in his stomach and pulled himself up to sit halfway upright. Kurt was right. They should be mature about this.

“Okay, then let’s talk,” he said. “You graduate in a week.”

“Yes.”

“We’re both here for the summer.”

“Yes.”

“And then you leave for New York at the end of August.”

“That is the plan,” Kurt said matter-of-factly.

“Neither of us wants to spend the summer apart,” Blaine said. “Unless you’ve changed your mind…?”

Kurt shook his head. “I haven’t.”

“Good,” he said, didn’t even try to hide his relief. 

“I just hate having an expiration date looming over our heads,” Kurt said. “It’s depressing. I don’t want to waste the next few months obsessing over how everything is going to be ending.”

“Me neither,” Blaine agreed. “So, how about we enjoy the time we have left while we have it? I’m not saying we have to ignore what’ll happen after that, but… we can agree to make the most of what we have.”

Kurt studied him for a long moment. “After I leave,” he said, “what happens? It’s just… over?”

“Nothing’s going to be over for you, Kurt. It’s New York! There’ll be so much for you there, you won’t even miss me.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Well, you don’t have to miss me yet,” Blaine said. He kissed Kurt again, drawing it out. “By the way, I wanted to do that even before you brought up graduation.”

“So you’re telling me it wasn’t a total avoidance mechanism?”

“Hmm. Maybe fifty-fifty.”

\--

At graduation the next week, Blaine sat next to Mr. Hummel and Carole in the bleachers, keeping an eye out for Kurt. Even from the distance it was easy to spot him across the football field, the high afternoon sun catching and glinting off the top of his spectacularly bedazzled graduation cap. Kurt’s personal touch, of course.

After Quinn’s valedictorian speech, the senior members of New Directions performed a group number in their gowns. Maybe it was because they were national champions now, maybe it was because it was the end of high school and everyone was willing to set aside four years’ worth of grudges and disdain to for once acknowledge how damn talented the glee club was; whatever the case, no one booed. No slushies were thrown. Instead, everyone—students, teachers, families—jumped to their feet with applause.

Blaine couldn’t see the faces of his friends from his place in the stands, but he could imagine what they looked like.

Once all the names of graduates had been called (he’d nearly cheered himself hoarse for Kurt), the diplomas distributed and the caps thrown in the air, he followed Mr. Hummel and Carole down to the football field. He hung back while Mr. Hummel grabbed his son in a tight squeeze, Carole reaching for Finn to do the same.

Eventually Kurt turned to face him, still beaming, doing that cute thing where he bounced up on his toes. Blaine smiled back at him and went in for a quick hug.

“Congratulations,” he said when he pulled back, holding Kurt at arm’s length. He looked good. Glowing. Somehow even while dressed the same as everyone else, Kurt wore it better than anyone there. “You’re a free man. How does it feel to be on the outside?”

“I don’t think it counts as ‘the outside’ when I’m still on school property,” Kurt said dryly as he adjusted his cap. “All I want is to get out of this shapeless monstrosity and into something wildly uncomfortable but fashionable. I’m going home to change, and then I think we’re all going to Breadstix to celebrate. You’re coming, right?”

“Isn’t that more of a family thing?” said Blaine, casting a glance at Mr. Hummel, who was watching the two of them.

Mr. Hummel didn’t even blink. “Yeah, what’s your point?”

Never in his life had Blaine ever so much enjoyed being stared at like he was an idiot.

\--

Breadstix was packed with the dinner crowd, but Carole had had the good sense to make a reservation earlier in the week, so a booth was ready for them when they arrived. Blaine squeezed in at the end next to Kurt and across from Mr. Hummel, who dedicated a toast to his two sons before they ate, nearly bursting with paternal pride.

“I mean it,” Mr. Hummel said toward the end of his rambling speech. “I couldn’t be happier for both you boys. Kurt, going off to New York, and Finn, you getting that arts scholarship to Ohio State… You should both be proud of yourselves. Damn proud. I know I am.”

For a second Blaine thought Finn might actually cry; it felt like he was intruding on some private family moment, but it wasn’t as if he’d shown up uninvited. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling, either. There was always something a little jarring about being around Kurt’s family—hanging around the fringes, watching the way they were with each other, effortlessly open and warm. And loud. They talked all the time, about anything and everything. No one in Blaine’s house talked to each other unless they had to.

Kurt’s family was different. Better.

He had the same thought again later that night, driving Kurt home from the graduation party Puck had thrown in the vacant lot behind his house. There’d been a bonfire, music, and enough alcohol to fill one of the swimming pools Puck cleaned on the weekends. Blaine hadn’t touched any of it—lesson well learned on that front—but Kurt decided to take the opportunity to experience getting properly drunk. (“There was one time, sophomore year, but it doesn’t count,” Kurt explained. “I just want to try it once, with this being my last hurrah and everything. I don’t want to get to New York and be an adult and not know what it’s like. Besides, it can’t make me any stupider than it makes you, can it?”)

It turned out drunk Kurt wasn’t too different than sober Kurt, aside from a tendency to break into random, hysterical giggle fits and talk with more volume than necessary. Both of which could present a problem when it came to smuggling him upstairs without waking up his parents.

“Kurt, when we go in, you’re going to have to be quiet for me,” Blaine said as he poured Kurt out of the passenger side. “We don’t want to wake everyone up, okay?”

Kurt stumbled a little as he stepped out of the car and onto the driveway, but righted himself with Blaine’s help and smothered his laughter with one hand.

“I will be as quiet as Matt Rutherford,” Kurt said solemnly.

Blaine paused from dragging Kurt up the driveway to shoot him a puzzled look. “Who is Matt Rutherford?”

“Oh, he left McKinley before you transferred. He used to be in glee club. He was a lovely person. He never said very much though. One time a spider laid eggs in his ear. Isn’t that horrifying?” Kurt didn’t pause long enough for Blaine to confirm that yes, it was indeed horrifying. “And then he moved away. I wonder what he’s up to now. Ooh, I should look him up on Facebook, I don’t know why I haven’t done that already. I hope he gets everything he wants out of life. I just want that for everyone. Everyone should achieve their dreams and be happy and fulfilled. What’s life worth living without dreams?”

“You are a very earnest drunk,” Blaine remarked, maneuvering Kurt up the steps to the front door.

For a second Kurt seemed to sober up completely, or at least enough to arch one eyebrow. “Are you judging my drunken ways, Blaine Anderson? Because if we’re going down _that_ road—”

“Not at all,” Blaine assured him. “It’s adorable, really.”

He opened the front door, closed it behind them as quietly as possible, and half-carried Kurt up the stairs to deposit him stomach-first on his bed. Blaine stood back for a minute, catching his breath and admiring the way Kurt’s ass looked in his tight pants at the same time.

“I’m not even going to try to peel those off of you,” he said. “Let’s just get those boots off.”

Kurt made an incomprehensible muffled sound into his pillow, then flipped over onto his back, his shirt rucking up to expose a strip of his stomach. He lifted one leg off the bed so Blaine could better reach it, watching as Blaine worked down the zippers to grapple off the boots.

“I’m done with high school,” he said. “That feels very strange to say.”

Blaine chuckled and perched on the edge of the bed. “I know, it’s almost like you’re growing up or something.”

He gently nudged Kurt over, pulled back the covers and helped Kurt climb under them. When he moved to stand, Kurt clutched his arm and said, “Hey, hey. Blaine. Hey.”

Blaine pressed a finger to his lips, silently shushing him. “What is it?” he asked.

“I really love you. You know that, right?” he said, and Blaine’s heart clenched a little at the words, the way it always did. A good kind of clench. Kurt was staring up at him, his face flushed and eyes too bright with drunken sheen. “I just wanted to say it in case I asphyxiate on my vomit in my sleep.”

Leave it to Kurt Hummel to still have a hold on his vocabulary while wasted.

“You’ll be fine.” He lifted a hand to stroke Kurt’s hair, and Kurt hummed appreciatively. Blaine half-expected him to start purring. “And yes, I know. I love you, too.” 

He planned to run to the bathroom, grab a cup of water and some aspirin to leave at Kurt’s bedside for the morning before making a hasty escape, but things didn’t go so smoothly. As soon as he stepped into the hallway, Carole was waiting for him, arms crossed over her chest. She had on a thick striped robe that made her look all soft and motherly. 

“You boys have a fun night?” she asked.

“I wasn’t—we weren’t—” Blaine felt his face heat up under her scrutinizing gaze. “I was just making sure he got to bed okay,” he started to explain. “We didn’t do anything.”

“Mmhmm,” she said, in such a tone he couldn’t tell whether she believed him or not. “So how bad of a hangover should I be expecting him to have tomorrow morning?”

“Please don’t be mad,” he said quickly. He tried to keep his voice down; the last thing he needed was to have Mr. Hummel come out to investigate. “He really didn’t drink that much, and I was his designated driver—”

Carole waved him off with one hand. “Relax, Blaine, you’re not in trouble,” she said. “Kurt’s more responsible than most adults I know. I think he’s earned himself one night of cutting loose without us ringing the alarm.”

“Right,” he said, breathing out his relief. “I was just going to get some water and aspirin for him, and then I’ll be out of your hair.”

“I can do that for you,” she said. “But why don’t you sleep on the couch tonight?”

“Oh, no, I’m fine to drive. I didn’t have anything to drink, I promise.”

“I know, but it’s late. It wouldn’t be a problem, really.”

He stopped to consider. Their couch was pretty comfortable—he’d slept on it plenty of times before—and he always liked being able to see Kurt first thing in the morning, but he’d imposed enough for one day.

“Thank you,” he said, “but I should get home. My parents’ll get worried if I don’t show up.”

That was a lie, and Blaine was pretty sure Carole knew it was a lie, but she didn’t call him out on it. She just eyed him for a long moment before nodding and bidding him goodnight. He turned, stealing quietly down the stairs, skipping the creaky one at the bottom and slipping out the front door. 

It wasn’t until he was alone in his car that he gave himself time to think about it—the fact that Kurt was, truly and officially, finished with high school. He’d known about Kurt’s dreams of New York for almost as long as he’d known him; Kurt was always talking about leaving, formulating an escape plan, and that had been okay because Blaine had had the same idea for himself even before Kurt came along, even if the timetable didn’t match up exactly. And he’d supported it because that was what you did for the people you loved. But he’d never really thought about what it’d be like when Kurt was gone. He hadn’t wanted to, in all honesty. 

Now, though, it was increasingly impossible to think about anything else. One summer. That was all they had left before everything changed.

At least he’d make it count.

\--

When the Six Flags employment mailing list emailed him about summer audition dates, he deleted it without thinking twice. 

The year before he’d been cast as part of a barbershop quartet, where his a capella Warbler experience proved useful, and he’d spent a few hours every day serenading visitors with fifties doo wop in the sweltering heat before driving over to the Hummel house, still in uniform. He’d shower in Kurt’s bathroom, use his loofah to scrub the stink of sweat and fried snack foods from his skin, come out smelling like Kurt’s twenty dollar guava-scented shampoo, and they’d spend the rest of the day lounging around catching up on Elizabeth Taylor’s filmography via NetFlix, or meeting up with Mercedes at the mall, or just driving around aimlessly with the radio blasting, singing at the tops of their lungs. Sometimes they’d wind up at Blaine’s house, in his room, lying on his bed with the record player on in the background, doing nothing but kissing for what felt like hours. Like they had all the time in the world. That’s what that whole summer had felt like: long, lazy, wonderfully endless.

This season’s casting call was for some pirate ship musical they’d decided to put on.

“I don’t think I can handle wearing an eye patch day in, day out. The traumatic flashbacks would be too much,” he joked.

Kurt shot him a look over his coffee that made it clear he didn’t share Blaine’s sense of humor about the situation, any more so than he had right after it’d happened, when Blaine was doped up to the nines and trying to distract Kurt from his fussing with jokes about pillaging and shivering timbers, all of which had been pointedly ignored.

Neither of them came right out and said it, but Blaine was pretty sure Kurt knew the real reason he wasn’t bothering with amusement park gigs this summer; he wanted them to spend as much time together as possible.

Not all of that was one-on-one time. Even with Finn and Rachel’s will-they-won’t-they status set to “won’t” on a (possibly? you never could tell with these things, Blaine thought, especially given what he’d heard of their history) permanent basis, Rachel was around the Hummel-Hudson household a lot. Somehow it wasn’t as awkward as it could’ve been. Finn was spending most of his time working at the shop anyway, trying to save up as much as he could before college rolled around, and when he wasn’t he was usually off with Puck or Sam, shooting off bottle rockets behind the middle school or playing video games or doing whatever. 

Sometimes Blaine would come over to find Rachel already there with Kurt. Every time he walked in on them, they cut off their conversation mid-sentence and traded silent looks Blaine couldn’t read. It took a while for him to realize it wasn’t because they were discussing him. They were talking about NYADA.

One morning Carole let him in on her way to the hospital for a shift, making him promise to stick around for dinner before directing him upstairs to Kurt’s room. He bounded up the staircase to find Kurt’s door cracked open a few inches, and he hovered outside for a minute, not eavesdropping, but… okay, so maybe he was eavesdropping.

He couldn’t make out much but a few snippets—things like “Gramercy Park” and “rent control.” After a few seconds he slowly swung open the door. Kurt and Rachel were laying side-by-side stomach-down on the bed, huddled around Kurt’s laptop. When she saw Blaine in the doorway, Rachel fell all over herself in her haste to slam the laptop shut.

“Blaine!” she exclaimed, voice high and shrill. “We were just… composing my Wikipedia page!”

Blaine closed the door behind him, looked from her to Kurt, who had his head bent, chewing on his lower lip. “You have a Wikipedia page?” he said.

“Well, I keep submitting it, but the editors continue to be ignorant of my many prestigious accomplishments and insist I am not a ‘notable person.’ I’m considering suing for defamation of character—my dads are looking into it.”

“Did you mention the PBS Christmas special?” he said. “Maybe that’ll push it over the edge in your favor.”

Rachel’s eyes lit up, but she didn’t get a chance to respond before the strains of Don’t Rain On My Parade began to sound. She grabbed her purse from the floor and dug out her cell phone.

“Oh, I have to go—it’s Mercedes. I’m supposed to meet up with her and Quinn to see the new Channing Tatum movie,” she explained. “I personally don’t get the appeal, but I was outvoted.”

“Yeah, tall, oafish, endearingly dimwitted? That doesn’t sound like your type at all,” Kurt said.

Rachel swatted him with her purse and swept out of the room, leaving them alone.

Blaine fell onto the bed next to Kurt, dropped a few kisses on the back of his shoulder. He could tell Kurt had been in the shower not long ago since he smelled like that cucumber body wash he always used.

“She’s been around a lot lately,” Blaine remarked.

“I know. I think she’s trying to stay distracted so she isn’t wallowing over Finn all of the time. Not that it stops her from interrogating me on his emotional state every five minutes.” Kurt rolled his eyes, then turned a bit to look at Blaine, exasperation replaced by something like disquiet. “It doesn’t bother you, does it?”

“No, of course not. I love Rachel, you know that.” He paused, cleared his throat. “Besides, I know you two have a lot to talk about. Your plans for New York and everything.”

He said it in a somewhat pointed tone, and Kurt looked… embarrassed? Chastened? Blaine couldn’t tell.

“You know,” he said more gently, “it’s fine for you and Rachel to talk about it in front of me.”

“I’m trying to be considerate,” Kurt said. “I don’t want you to think I’m—” His voice broke off, didn’t finish the thought.

“What?”

He hesitated before saying, “Like I’m rubbing it in your face.”

“You’re not,” Blaine said. “You’re excited. You should be. I’m excited for you.”

“You are?”

“Of course I am, dummy. It’s your future we’re talking about.” He ran a hand up and down Kurt’s back, felt the muscles relax under his palm. “I want to hear all about it. Tell me.”

Kurt looked at him for a long time, like maybe he wasn’t entirely convinced, but then he nodded and opened up the laptop.

“We’re apartment hunting right now,” he said. He pulled up his internet browser, switched to a tab with a list of links. “Her dads agreed to foot most of the rent, and my dad offered to pay for some too since my scholarship covers most of my tuition, but we’ve been looking everywhere and it’s still not enough to afford anything more than a glorified closet. I’m going to be living in a closet, Blaine. Do you see the irony?”

“It’s Manhattan, Kurt,” Blaine said. “Of course it’s expensive. That’s the price you pay for getting to live in the most exciting city in the world.”

“I know, I know. I suppose I was just hoping reality skewed closer to Sex and the City rather than the RENT side of things. I so do not have the right wardrobe to pull off ‘starving artist.’”

“Think of it this way: you’ll be at school most of the time, and when you’re not, you’re in New York City,” he said. “Who cares if your apartment is the size of Carrie Bradshaw’s walk-in Manolo closet? You’re probably not going to spend much time there anyway.”

“Hmm.” Kurt propped his chin on his hand and tapped his fingers against his mouth. “It’s just… overwhelming. I don’t even know where to start.”

“I’ll help you.”

They spent the next two hours looking up information on all of the apartment listings Rachel had forwarded him—the neighborhoods, relative distance to NYADA’s campus, nearest subway stops, Laundromats, rent prices. First they ruled out all of the studios and one bedrooms— sharing an apartment with Rachel Berry, Kurt could handle, but he drew the line at not having his own room, however closet-sized it might be.

After going through the listings and doing some searches of their own, they’d narrowed it down to five possibilities: a nice, roomy-by-Manhattan-standards place in Inwood, one on the Lower East Side whose main drawback was being a railroad style where you had to walk through one bedroom to get to the second, one in Union Square that was closest to campus but also so cramped that just looking at the pictures made Blaine vaguely claustrophobic, a six-story walkup in Nolita, and an apartment in St. Mark’s Place.

The St. Mark’s Place apartment was Blaine’s personal favorite. It had two bedrooms, a kitchen with stainless steel appliances, and enough space in the living area to comfortably fit a couch and tv stand. The exposed brick and hardwood floors gave it a cozy feel. It was situated in a great neighborhood, young and artsy with lots of restaurants and coffee shops, and it wasn’t too far from NYADA’s campus, either.

Kurt felt the same way. “This is the one,” he said. “I think I could see myself living here.”

Blaine could see it, too: Kurt waking up in that bedroom, Kurt frequenting that coffee shop, Kurt walking those streets. It was easy to imagine.

He kind of hated how easy it was to envision a future for Kurt that didn’t include him at all. When he thought about his own, it seemed hazy, like a half-developed photograph. Sure, there were things he’d wanted for himself for a long time, before he’d even met Kurt, but somewhere along the way he’d started figuring the Kurt of it all into everything. He wasn’t sure where to begin even changing that. It wasn’t that he couldn’t remember life before Kurt; it was that he _could_ , with nearly painful clarity.

The whole point of this was to find a way to move on. He wished it didn’t all feel so much like sliding backwards.

\--

Mr. Schuester and Ms. Pillsbury had a late June wedding, held outside in a park under an arch twined with flowers. It was beautiful. That was no surprise— Kurt had done most of the wedding planning himself. Blaine had helped. “Helping” mostly amounted to debating for an hour whether the invitations should be embossed with gold or silver, tagging along with Kurt, Coach Bieste (the maid of honor), and Ms. Pillsbury to set up the gift registry at the department store, and gorging himself on free samples while Kurt grilled potential caterers on their menus.

The weather was hot enough to make Blaine regret going with his fallback classic black suit, but Kurt next to him in his silver designer label three piece wasn’t faring much better. Despite the heat unfurling his curls and making him itchy with sweat, he thought it was a lovely ceremony. Ms. Pillsbury looked elegant in her simple white gown and her hair swept back, and it was nice to see Mr. Schuester so happy and bright-eyed. The expression on his face when Ms. Pillsbury strode down the aisle was the look of a man who had finally gotten things right and couldn’t believe his luck.

Kurt would never admit it, Blaine knew, but he definitely shed a tear when the vows were exchanged.

They had the reception in this big white tent with tables and a dance floor set up inside, and Mercedes sang The Way You Look Tonight for the bride and groom’s first dance. Neither could stop beaming as they glided around the floor in each other’s arms.

“Watching them is about to send me into a diabetic coma,” Kurt said. He poked at the slice of cake on his plate with his fork, licked off a bit of icing and scrunched up his face. “Wait, no, that would be the cake.”

“Aw, are you still bitter Ms. Pillsbury decided against gluten free?” Blaine patted Kurt’s knee under the table. “You really need to let that go.”

The cake was just about the only battle Kurt had lost in the process. And for good reason—his taste was fantastic. It was pretty incredible to see what he’d been able to pull off on a teacher’s budget. Incredible, but not surprising. Kurt could accomplish anything he set his mind to, Blaine had no doubt about that. Times like these, he wondered what Kurt could be capable of when the deck _wasn’t_ stacked against him one way or another.

He applauded with the rest of the guests as the song ended, then kicked back the rest of his sparkling cider and rose from his chair, extending a hand to Kurt.

“Dance with me?” he asked.

Kurt took his hand, let Blaine lead him to the dance floor, where other couples were coming out of the woodwork to join. He put one hand on Blaine’s shoulder, laced their fingers together with the other. Blaine looked around at the décor—the blue tulle bows wrapped around each chair, the hanging flower baskets, the twinkly strands of fairy lights strewn everywhere.

“You did an amazing job,” he said, curling a hand around Kurt’s waist.

Kurt scoffed as if it had all been nothing more than a sleight of hand.

“I’m serious,” he insisted. “The floating tea rose candle centerpieces? Brilliant. I might have to steal that idea for when I get married.”

Kurt blinked and pulled back from him a little. “You think about your wedding?”

“Why do you sound so surprised? Don’t you remember last summer, me staying up all night with you to watch the royal wedding live?”

“And then my dad came downstairs and thought something terrible had happened because you, me, and Carole were all crying our eyes out over how perfect it was?” Kurt laughed at the memory. “I think he’s still judging me for that.”

“If my dad knew, he’d probably have me institutionalized,” Blaine said. He meant it as a joke, but it came out with a harder edge than he’d intended.

Kurt mercifully changed the subject.

“So exactly how detailed has your fantasy wedding thought process been?” he asked. “Have you considered locale? Theme?”

“All I know is I want tulips draped on every available surface,” Blaine said. “Just, like, an explosion of tulips, everywhere.” Off of Kurt’s horrified expression, he laughed. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding! I think blue hydrangeas would be a more tasteful choice.”

Kurt nodded. “I’m partial to calla lilies myself, but hydrangeas are acceptable,” he said. “It’d have to be an indoor venue, because your hair _demands_ controlled temperatures.” He paused. “But no churches.”

“No churches,” Blaine agreed.

He drew Kurt in a little closer so his temple rested against Kurt’s cheek. Mercedes was still belting away.

They swayed in silence. Blaine wanted to just stand still for a second and savor this, the feeling of Kurt in his arms, a moment of calm before— before whatever. Before the next wave. Part of him wanted to say thank you, but Kurt would ask him for what, and he didn’t really know what he’d like to come out after that, because most of it would sound cheesy and overly sentimental.

But right then, Kurt was here with him. Blaine got to dance with his boyfriend, and sing silly pop songs with him in the car, and lie on the Hummel couch with his head in Kurt’s lap watching terrible reality television accompanied by Kurt’s hilarious running commentary, and tell Kurt jokes and watch him laugh. Or sometimes not laugh and shoot judgmental-yet-still-fond looks instead. He had someone to talk to about anything and everything, someone who would listen, and understand, always, and maybe even kiss him afterward—one of the greatest perks of dating your best friend.

For now Blaine got to have everything he wanted to thank Kurt for, and all the things that made him want to be everything Kurt deserved.

\--

Summer went by too fast. Time was weird that way, though, like how pre-calc always felt like it lasted three hours instead of one, and glee club practice never felt long enough. Like how one year left of high school wasn’t that long when looked at objectively, but the idea of a year without Kurt seemed like an eternity. So much could happen in one year. So much could change.

Everyone seemed to be aware of it. Sure, they’d all stay in touch, and they’d all be friends after this, but they wouldn’t be together. It wouldn’t be the same. Not with Mercedes headed to UCLA, Finn to Columbus, Quinn to New Haven, Kurt and Rachel to New York. Brittany had not only pulled off the miracle to end all miracles by graduating, but she’d even been recruited to a dance school in Miami; Puck, whose surprising knack for entrepreneurship led to Mr. Hummel hiring him as a part-time manager for the tire shop while he took night classes at business school, would be sticking around, and so would Sam, who’d been accepted on a scholarship to Lima University. Mike had had his pick of dance schools and would be off to New York to attend the Ailey School. Santana—well, no one knew exactly what Santana’s plans were, but Blaine was pretty sure they didn’t entail staying in Ohio. 

It was like everyone knew they’d all be headed off in different directions and were trying to overcompensate, spending more time hanging out together than they had during the school year. Sugar Motta’s dad rented out the roller rink for Rory’s goodbye party, and everyone went. The girls were always going off to the movies or the mall together. Rachel threw a few karaoke get-togethers in her basement, her dads acting as emcees. The Hummel-Hudsons put together a Fourth of July backyard barbeque and invited everybody. Mike and Tina set up weekly Breadstix double dinner dates with Kurt and Blaine.

Those could get a little awkward at times, since Mike and Tina had decided to try the long distance thing.

“We know how hard it’ll be, so we promised there’ll be no pressure,” Tina explained to Blaine when they were alone at the booth, waiting for Kurt and Mike to return from the bathroom. “If either of us meets someone else, then… well… it’s okay. Maybe things aren’t meant to be. We just thought we should give it a shot.”

He could tell Tina didn’t understand why they weren’t trying the same for themselves. She wasn’t the only one. The only people who didn’t question Blaine about it were his parents.

It wasn’t something he’d planned to bring up around them. They knew about Kurt, of course, had even met him on a handful of occasions—encounters Blaine tried his best to keep as brief as possible. He didn’t really believe they’d ever say or do anything outright hostile, but they embarrassed him with their quiet disapproval, their poorly-disguised uneasiness over the situation. That’s how Blaine’s gayness had always been framed by them: it was “his situation.” As if it were some unfortunate, hopefully temporary set of circumstances.

He’d rather keep those two sides of his life separate, divided, compartmentalized. He didn’t want to share too much of Kurt with them, because he knew they would take this—this wonderful, amazing, incredible thing in his life—and twist it into something… else. 

He hadn’t told his parents, didn’t know how he would even bring it up since they never talked about Kurt or anything encompassing emotion in general, but then Cooper got involved. 

That wasn’t exactly planned, either. What happened was that Rachel and Kurt had agreed the St. Mark’s apartment was the one they wanted; the current sub-letter would be moving out at the end of July, so a deposit had to be made before then, and soon, if they wanted first dibs. Rachel’s dads were worried about putting money down on a place they couldn’t see for themselves.

“Curtains,” Rachel said. “Do you think we’ll need curtains? I think we should go for a red theme. Red velvet. Dramatic and bold and—”

“No,” Kurt said flatly. He slumped over the shopping cart. “How are we supposed to furnish an apartment we don’t even have?”

They were in Sheets ’N Things, stocking up on supplies for the apartment. The one that wasn’t theirs— yet.

“Look Kurt, I told you, I’m trying to convince them not to wait and miss out on our prime piece of New York real estate, but they’re really stubborn on this,” Rachel said. “I even tried plying them with my infamous vegan cheesecake, _and_ I sang them a power ballad about it. They both cried—of course they did, they’re only human—but they still won’t budge. They’re not going to co-sign a lease sight unseen.” She blew a hot breath through her bangs. “I wish we could find someone to look at it for us. Someone they would trust.”

“I could ask my brother,” Blaine suggested.

Cooper lived in Manhattan, somewhere uptown, in one of those fancy high rises with doormen and elevators. Blaine had never visited him there. Blaine didn’t even know what he did for a living except that it had to do with advertising—he imagined it to be something like Mad Men, which it probably wasn’t but hey, it was more interesting to think than whatever the reality was.

Kurt raised an eyebrow. “Do you think he’d do it?”

Blaine didn’t know. He and Cooper weren’t exactly close.

He called later that afternoon when he was alone, knowing Rachel and Kurt would badger him with what to say if they were around for it. The line rang five times and almost switched to voicemail before someone picked up at the last moment.

“Yeah?” Cooper answered in this brisk, curt, don’t-waste-my-precious-time tone that reminded Blaine of their dad. He hated that tone.

“Hey,” he said. “It’s Blaine.”

“I know. There’s this invention called caller ID, maybe you’ve heard of it. So, what is it you want from me?”

Blaine bristled, affronted despite himself. “Who said I—”

“The only reason for you to be calling is because someone is dead, someone is about to die, or you need a favor,” Cooper said. “Since you’re not crying like a little bitch right now, I’m going to assume no one’s keeled over recently.”

It was more than a little blunt, but Blaine couldn’t deny it. He took a breath.

“Well… okay, I do need to ask you something,” he admitted. “So you remember Kurt, right?”

“The boyfriend?” he said. “Yeah, I remember.”

“He’s moving to New York for school, and I’ve been looking at apartments with him—”

“Jesus, cohabitating straight out of high school?” Cooper barked out an incredulous laugh. “What does dear old dad think about that?”

“Dad doesn’t think anything about it because we’re not moving in together,” Blaine said. “I still have a year of high school left. I’m not dropping out or anything.”

“Wait, really? Huh. I could’ve sworn you were a senior.”

“I wish.” How many headaches would that have saved? “And Kurt and I aren’t—we’re not… together. Um. Or we won’t be, after he moves.”

“He broke up with you?”

“It was mutual.”

Cooper snickered on the other end. “People always say that, but it never is.”

“I guess that makes us the exception then,” he snapped. Cooper was one of the last people on the planet he wanted to get into this with. “Look, I’m not calling for relationship advice. There’s an apartment in St. Mark’s Place Kurt needs someone to look at to make sure it’s… as advertised. I was hoping maybe you’d be willing to do me a favor and check it out for him. But if you’re going to give me a hard time, just forget about it—”

“Oh, relax, will you? Give me the address.”

Blaine’s righteous anger deflated like a popped balloon. “Wait, so you’ll do it?”

“Set it up and I might be able to squeeze it in after work tomorrow. But you owe me big time,” he warned. “Do you know how hard it blows trying to catch a cab in Midtown?”

So Cooper went and scoped it out the next night, snapped some pictures to email to Blaine and even spoke with Leroy Berry on the phone for almost an hour assuring him the place wasn’t a cockroach-infested hellhole. Blaine didn’t know what had inspired Cooper to do all that—maybe he’d just caught him in a rare generous mood—but he figured he’d end up paying for it sooner or later.

It turned out to be sooner than Blaine anticipated. Blaine didn’t even think his parents would be home when he came downstairs; Saturdays usually had his mom running errands all day and his dad off with his buddies at the golf course. But there they were, bright and early, his mother fixing the coffee and his father flipping idly through the mail at the table as he sipped from his mug.

When Blaine first saw them he froze mid-step, and for a second considered backtracking and disappearing upstairs—except even with the lack of eye contact there was no way he’d gone unnoticed, and that level of avoidance would be too blatant. So instead he pushed forward and tried to pretend their presence neither unexpected nor unwanted, heading casually into the kitchen for what he’d come for.

He rummaged around the refrigerator for an orange, shut the door and leaned against it.

“I thought you had golf today,” he said to his dad, because feigning interest in one another’s lives felt like the polite thing to do. And politeness was easy. Practically second nature at this point.

“Rescheduled for tomorrow,” his father answered, eyes still on the stack of envelopes.

“Oh,” Blaine said. He tried, mostly unsuccessfully, to modulate the disappointment in his voice. His mother offered the coffee, but he shook his head. “I’m meeting Kurt at the Lima Bean.”

“Mm,” she said as she jiggled the pot back into place. She had that look on her face she got whenever Kurt’s name was mentioned, like she was thinking of all the biological grandchildren Blaine would never give her. “You know, Cooper called last night.”

A sense of dread prickled up his spine, but he tried to mask it with nonchalance. “Yeah?”

“He mentioned you asked him to look at an apartment for Kurt,” she said. “He was also under the impression that you two—that you’re not—” She let her hands finish the thought for her.

So there it was.

“We’ve decided to… take a break,” he said slowly. “After he leaves for school.”

His father actually looked at him for the first time since he’d entered the room. Blaine wished he wouldn’t. He silently prayed he wouldn’t say anything; he couldn’t take whatever his dad had to be thinking, not right now. Or ever, to be honest.

His mother picked a dish cloth up off the counter, gingerly folded it corner-to-corner, like the task took all of her concentration. He could feel his father’s eyes on him, still.

“Well,” she said in this careful voice. “That’s for the best, don’t you think.”

It wasn’t a question.

\--

It took three full days to pack up Kurt’s room. The closet alone took half of that, trying to figure out what should stay in Lima, what to bring with him to New York. Everything had to be ready to go soon; Rachel and her dads had come up with the idea of renting a truck to drive to the city, and they’d offered to take most of Kurt’s things with them. They’d also offered for Kurt to ride along, but he’d politely declined. Ten hours squeezed in such close quarters with that many Berrys was a little too intense for him to handle. Instead he was going to fly in a week later, when everything was a little more settled.

Kurt insisted he try on everything in his closet before making any decisions, which slowed the process considerably, but Blaine wasn’t about to complain since it involved Kurt undressing. A lot.

“What do you think?” Kurt said, pulling up his shirt a little and spinning a slow circle so Blaine could get a better view of the studded trousers he was sporting. He kept twisting his head around to glimpse for himself, and it gave him the effect of looking like a puppy chasing its own tail. Adorable.

“They look great, but aren’t you already bringing two pairs just like them?”

“No, these ones have silver stitching, and the cuffs are—” Kurt trailed off at Blaine’s meaningful eyebrow raise. “Okay, point taken. The pants stay.”

Later he emerged from the closet, dressed in his jeans and a bin of accessories in his arms. They emptied it on the floor, sat across from each other, picking through the belts and brooches and hats.

Suddenly Kurt said, “Oh,” and Blaine looked up to see a long burgundy scarf in his hands.

It was one of Blaine’s. He must’ve left it here by accident, or lent it to Kurt, or something.

“I guess I should—give this back,” Kurt said after an awkward moment, something pinched and pained in his expression. He handed the scarf over to Blaine.

Blaine took it from him, then shook his head. “No, you keep it,” he said. He leaned over and looped it around Kurt’s neck. “Looks better on you anyway.”

Normally that would be his cue to tug both ends of the scarf until Kurt spilled forward into his lap, and they’d kiss for a while, and the tension would evaporate until they stumbled on the next unpleasant reminder of their impending separation. He almost started to—could see how Kurt expected it, nearly holding his breath waiting—but instead he let the ends slip through his fingers and sat back. He couldn’t just push away that feeling and make himself forget. Not today.

He returned to untangling the mess between them. There were two piles: Things To Take and Things To Leave.

It was hard, knowing which he belonged to.

\--

Blaine liked Rachel’s dads. Who wouldn’t? They were warm people, full of life, always regaling the room with hilarious stories. But it was more than that. He was impressed by them, really. By what they had. The easy banter, the affectionate bickering, the way they still looked at each other after so many years together. He’d never encountered an adult gay couple in real life; he couldn’t even really remember seeing any growing up on television or in movies. He sort of looked up to them in a way. From a distance. It had to be hard sometimes for them, living in Lima, but they made it look so easy.

“Why do you think they decided to stay here?” Blaine asked Kurt once, after the first time he’d met them backstage at Regionals.

“Beats me,” Kurt had shrugged. “It’s not like they don’t have money. You’d think they’d have hightailed it out of this town to somewhere where cow tipping isn’t considered the height of culture.”

Blaine wouldn’t have blamed them for it, but he thought it was kind of… brave, even inspiring, for them to take root here rather than let themselves be run off to some more tolerant big city.

The Berrys came over a week before Kurt was set to leave, early in the morning, U-Haul truck parked in the drive. Rachel was back at the house doing some last minute packing for the road trip later that night and Mr. Hummel wouldn’t be back from D.C. for another few days. Finn wasn’t thrilled about helping move boxes, but Kurt had blackmailed him into it. That knowledge of his brother’s internet browser history still proved useful leverage.

As soon as Carole opened the front door Hiram Berry barreled in, grabbing her by the shoulders and kissing both her cheeks.

“Carole, darling, light of my life,” he said, “I am in absolute desperate need of a drink. _Desperate_.”

She blinked at him, caught off-guard. “Oh…kay. Well, I’m not sure what we have. Are you sure it’s not a little early for that?”

“Not early enough if you ask me! Which you did. And it’s not.” Hiram snorted. “Don’t worry your gorgeous head, I can whip something up on my own. If I don’t just go straight for the bottle first. Merlot, merlot, my kingdom for some merlot.”

“You’ll have to forgive Hiram today,” Leroy said. “He’s in a mood because I deleted Dance Moms off the Tivo last night to make room.”

“Oh, because you just _had_ to record the No Reservations rerun you’ve only seen eight times,” Hiram shot back. “I wonder why! I’m sure Anthony Bourdain, your little bad boy silver fox chef extraordinaire being shirtless had nothing to do with it!”

He threw his hands in the air and stalked past them all into the kitchen.

“It was the Miami episode! You know I have a deep-seated appreciation for Cuban-influenced cuisine!” Leroy called after him. He turned back to Carole, Kurt, Finn, and Blaine, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. “Don’t mind him. Let’s get you moved out, shall we?”

\--

Moving took some time, but not as long as Blaine expected it would, since they had so many helping hands. Everyone pitched in except for Hiram, who stayed in the kitchen doing… whatever he was doing. 

Soon enough all of the boxes had been taped up and transported from Kurt’s room to the truck. Everyone trudged into the kitchen, sweaty and starving, where Hiram had taken over—he’d constructed a towering plate of finger sandwiches, half of which Finn immediately scooped onto his plate, and had two pitchers and glasses set up on the table.

“I made margaritas,” Hiram said to Carole. “They pack a wallop, so if you want a virgin—and you know sometimes I guess we all do!—just say so.”

They all sat out on the back patio and relaxed in the sun. It was a perfect summer day, clear blue skies and a light breeze. Hiram’s bad mood had apparently vanished once he had a drink in him, because he kept his hand loose at the back of Leroy’s neck, grinning at his jokes, jumping in with collaborative details when Leroy recounted an amusing incident in South Beach with a cabana boy and a banana milkshake that had everyone gasping with laughter.

For a while Blaine and Finn got up and tossed a football back and forth. They’d done this before, whenever Mr. Hummel barbecued in the backyard on Friday nights, but sometimes Finn still misjudged the height difference and threw too high.

Three times he sent the ball sailing over Blaine’s head and into the bushes. The last time, Blaine retrieved it and trotted back to his place, pitched it to Finn. Finn caught it easily, then held it in his hands. He had that expression on his face that indicated he was either lost in thought or hungry. Possibly both.

“I’m gonna miss this, man,” he said.

Blaine cast a sideways look at the patio; Kurt, Carole, and the Berrys were deep in the midst of some discussion, mindless to anything else. Even out of earshot he could tell it was an ardent conversation—Hiram waving his drink around, Kurt talking with his hands to embellish whatever he was saying— but they were all smiling, happy and bright in the afternoon sun. It was a picture worthy of an outdoor furniture advertisement. Or a postcard. The kind you send to someone you love miles and miles away.

“Hey, it’s not like anyone’s dying,” he said to Finn. “You won’t be that far. And I’ll still be around here.”

He hoped he didn’t sound bitter about that.

“True,” Finn agreed, except he gave Blaine a long look, turning the football over in his hands. He wasn’t a stupid guy. “But, you know what I mean.”

The football soared in a gentle arc toward Blaine, straight on. He caught it with both hands. No fumbling this time.

Yeah. Blaine knew.

\--

Rachel drove to the house herself before dinner to say her goodbyes. She stayed upstairs with Finn for a long time. When she came back down, her face was puffy, like she’d been crying really hard.

In the foyer she wrapped Kurt up in a lingering hug, sniffing a little as she pulled away. “I’ll call you as soon as I can,” she said. “And every day until you get there. I’ll tell you everything. You’ll be so sick of my voice.”

Blaine could almost see the way Kurt swallowed the automatic catty retort—probably something along the lines of, _So it’ll be just like high school, then?_ —and offered her a smile instead.

“Good, because I demand to know every last detail,” he said. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay for dinner?”

Rachel shook her head. “No, thank you. My dads are waiting for me.”

“Okay. In that case, I have a brisket in the oven to check on.” Kurt hugged her again, quickly, and hurried off to the kitchen.

Blaine watched him go, and when he finally turned back, Rachel was staring at him with eyes full of understanding.

“Do you know how you look at him?” she said softly. “It’s the same way my dads look at each other. And Burt and Carole. Like how Finn—” Her voice quavered a touch before she cut herself off, looked down and brushed the hair out of her eyes. “It’s really special. I can’t imagine—well, I can. Unfortunately.”

“Rachel,” he started, not sure what to say.

“I know how much it must hurt. He’s hurting too, I know he is. And me. All of us. It’s not fair,” she said. “But I guess that’s growing up.”

He gave her a weak, watery smile. “Do you think I could just stop for a while then?”

She smiled back a little tearfully and swept Blaine up in her arms, tight enough to squeeze the breath out of him.

“He’ll be okay,” she said.

“I know that. I know.”

Kurt was Kurt; he could do anything. Make it through anything.

“I’ll take care of him for you,” Rachel promised, voice low. It was like something straight out of a movie or play, exactly the kind of dramatic statement she loved to make— Rachel Berry, the girl who stormed through life as if she were the star of her own musical production, everyone around her mere supporting players—but when he looked at her face, he saw how truly she meant it.

Blaine’s throat closed up and he couldn’t speak.

“Thank you,” he managed after a moment.

They drew apart and stood there smiling at each other. All at once she straightened, tossed her head so her hair settled over her shoulders.

“I should be going,” she said. “I’ll miss you, Blaine. I understand my shoes are impossible to fill since I’m a once-in-a-generation kind of talent, but please do your best to uphold the legacy I’ve left New Directions.”

“I will,” he grinned. “And be safe, okay?”

“Don’t worry, my dads are excellent drivers.”

Blaine walked her to the door, opened it, and just as she started to step through, he put a hand on her shoulder. She turned back to him, curious.

“I can’t wait to see your name up in lights, Rachel,” he said. “It’s only a matter of time.”

Rachel’s smile was bright enough to light up an entire city on its own. “I know.”

\--

It was just the two of them for dinner. After they ate, Kurt took some leftovers for Finn right up to his room and stayed there for a while, probably comforting him over whatever had happened with Rachel, Blaine figured. Carole was upstairs catching some sleep before her overnight shift at the hospital. 

When Kurt returned, Blaine was busying himself by clearing off the dishes in the sink. Kurt wordlessly slid in next to him to help.

“So Carole’s working all night,” Blaine said.

“Mmhm.” Kurt was distracted, fiddling around to arrange a pot in the crowded dishwasher rack.

“And my parents are in Atlanta.”

Some business trip convention thing—they’d be gone for a few days. 

“I thought it was Albuquerque.”

“No, Atlanta. But that’s not the point. The point is that my parents aren’t around. Your parents aren’t around. And my house is empty.” He paused heavily. “Do you see where I’m going with this?” 

The realization registered in Kurt’s eyes, and he almost dropped a plate. “Oh. Yes. Yes, I think I do.”

“We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to,” Blaine said quickly. “I know you have a lot you still need to get done before you go. Or you might not want to leave Finn alone tonight. I just thought… this might be the last time. That we have the chance.”

He felt like he was breaking some unspoken rule by bringing it up, but someone had to.

Kurt stepped forward, laid a soapy hand on Blaine’s arm and squeezed. “Of course I want to,” he said firmly. He leaned over and brushed a kiss across Blaine’s cheek. “Let me go get a change of clothes.”

\--

Back when they first started having sex, they’d spent a lot of time laughing their way through it. They’d both been nervous about what they were doing, not completely sure of the mechanics; Blaine found out fast that nothing on the internet could fully prepare you for the real thing. Sex wasn’t like what the movies or his mother’s romance novels he’d stolen growing up made it seem. It was messy, and sometimes embarrassing, elbows accidentally jabbing weird places and clumsy grappling with condoms, the kind of stuff people didn’t really talk about. Early on the laughing had helped to take the nervous edge off, make the experience more comfortable as they navigated different positions and angles and how their bodies best fit together. It made the awkward moments less awkward.

By now they’d found a good rhythm to things. Sometimes they switched it up if they were in the mood, but they’d spent enough hours talking, fooling around and making each other melt into the mattress to determine what worked best for them. What felt right. 

Tonight there was no laughter. And not much talking, either. The front door had hardly clicked shut before Kurt had Blaine pressed up against it.

He all but dragged Blaine upstairs into his room, and pulled him in for a kiss that didn’t end until they were lying in a tangled heap on the bed. They broke apart only to undress each other in snatches—not so many layers this time, thankfully—and Blaine had never been more pleased with himself for having the foresight to store some supplies within arm’s reach in his nightstand drawer, because he didn’t think he’d be able to pry himself apart from Kurt long enough to leave the bed.

It was hard enough abandoning Kurt’s mouth for the time it took for to drag his shirt up over his head. And then it was off, and his lips found Kurt’s again. Kurt grabbed him by the hips, pulled him close so their legs intertwined. Their kissing wasn’t usually like this— desperate, as if their lives depended on it—and Blaine wondered if they should try to slow down, savor it more, but he figured they would have time for that later.

He settled a hand between Kurt’s legs, and the first touch made Kurt twist against him, gasping. Blaine’s hand moved in a familiar rhythm. It wasn’t the same as how he touched himself, it wouldn’t even make Kurt come, it was just enough to get him a little unraveled. 

“Blaine,” Kurt breathed, “god, _Blaine_ —”

He loved that hitch in Kurt’s voice, the one that told him he was doing everything right.

And then it was Kurt’s turn to reduce Blaine to a quivering mess. He rolled on top, slowly worked in a lubed finger, and then another, and every time Blaine stopped writhing around long enough to focus, he saw Kurt watching him intently with a hint of surprise in his eyes. He always did that, no matter how many times they did this, no matter how many times Blaine was spread beneath him in this exact position. Like he was marveling at his own power to leave Blaine gasping and begging for more. Like it was hard for him to believe he could do that to another person.

Kurt eased himself in slowly, and Blaine felt his muscles clench, the slight burn and stretch and feeling of being filled to the brim. He closed his eyes. It was too much and not enough, somehow. He wanted to laugh, wanted to sob, wanted it to stop and wanted it to never end.

Suddenly the feeling lessened, and Blaine looked up to see Kurt had drawn back a little. His eyes were shining in the thrown dim light of the table lamp.

“Are you okay?” Kurt asked, and it was only then Blaine realized he was trembling.

“Don’t stop,” he said hoarsely. His shaky hands pulled Kurt back to him. “Don’t stop.”

Kurt began to move faster, one hand braced on Blaine’s hip, the other moving over Blaine’s cock with these unbearably light touches, and Blaine couldn’t do more than gasp out some mash of nonsensical syllables. He tilted his hips up, both hands clutching at Kurt’s naked back, and god, he couldn’t think anything beyond this, Kurt deep inside him, every thrust rubbing against that sweet spot that made him see stars.

He came with a cry all over Kurt’s hand, was still caught up in it as Kurt thrust once, twice more, and then collapsed on top of him, face pressed into the crook of Blaine’s neck. 

Kurt pulled out and slid most of the way off of him, leaving an arm flung around Blaine’s waist. Everything was suddenly quiet except for their ragged breaths. When Blaine turned around in his arms, Kurt was closer than he expected, their noses touching. That fuzzy out of focus kind of close. 

He took a moment to just drink the sight in. He’d never known anyone the way he knew Kurt. The smattering of faded freckles across his shoulders and how he smelled and that sensitive spot above the hollow of his collarbone. It was an incredible feeling, to know somebody that intimately.

They went for two more rounds later that night, taking their time with it. Neither of them spoke very much, except for Kurt repeating Blaine’s name in little whispers, like a prayer, something reverent. 

The first glimpses of sunrise were filtering through the blinds when Blaine opened his eyes again. Kurt was spooned against his back, one hand curled around Blaine’s wrist as if trying to keep him there. He carefully extracted himself from Kurt’s grasp, and when he pulled away to go to the bathroom, Kurt made a snuffling sound and stretched an arm out in the empty space.

Blaine slipped down the hall into the bathroom, took a leak, brushed his teeth quickly, and returned to see Kurt had stirred awake. His head peeked out from under the sheets, matted hair sticking out in all directions. Blaine was in love with Kurt’s early morning bedhead, how it looked before he had any chance to style every lock into place.

He climbed back onto the bed, and Kurt lazily pulled Blaine under the covers with him. “Mm. Where’d you go?”

“Bathroom expedition.”

“Missed you,” Kurt mumbled, drawing the sheets up to cocoon them and trap the warmth in.

He kissed the top of Kurt’s head and snuggled close against his side. “Not going anywhere.”

They drifted back to sleep, Blaine’s head pillowed on Kurt’s shoulder, Kurt’s arm draped over Blaine’s back, their legs entwined. Blaine liked the way it felt, warm and safe. He closed his eyes, matching their breathing, and tried not to think about anything else.

\--

“What’d you think of the movie?” asked Tina.

They were outside the theater, walking back to her car while Blaine checked his texts for the tenth time in the last hour. He was grateful to have her there. He hated being in parking lots after dark.

He stuck his cell phone back in his pocket. He’d been checking it obsessively all day; Kurt had picked his dad up from the airport that morning, was clocking in some much-needed family bonding time. After all, there were only two days to go before he left Ohio.

“I thought it was good,” he said to her. He didn’t know if it was a lie or not because he’d barely been able to pay attention to what they’d just watched. Not even Ryan Gosling’s abs proved enough of a distraction. And how was _that_ possible?

“So,” Tina said, shifting her purse strap on her shoulder and jingling her car keys in one hand. “How’s Kurt doing?”

“Great,” he said. “Busy. You know how it is.”

And it sucked. On a selfish level. Only one day apart and he was displaying withdrawal symptoms. How was he going to survive this?

“Uh-huh.” Tina glanced at him sideways. “And what about you?”

He flashed her a smile. Hoped it didn’t look as fake as it felt. “I’m handling it.”

Tina looked like she knew better.

\--

His parents came back from Atlanta with tans. Blaine had the feeling they’d spent more time by the poolside and on the golf course than doing anything business-related. Not that it mattered to him.

The mini-vacation put his mom in a good mood and that made him seriously resentful, which Blaine was self-aware enough to realize was stupid, because it wasn’t like everyone else should be unhappy just because he was. But his heart wouldn’t listen to his logical brain, and watching her flutter around chatting on the phone and humming as she cleaned the kitchen only made him grow even more annoyed.

“How about we go out to dinner tomorrow night?” she suggested. “I could make reservations at Breadstix. You like that place, don’t you?”

It took all of Blaine’s willpower not to raise his voice.

“I can’t,” he said shortly. “I have plans. It’s Kurt’s last day in town.”

“Oh, right,” she said, like this was something she’d merely forgotten, when the truth was she probably had never heard him mention it in the first place. “Another time, then.”

He hated how unbothered she was by it all. Like Kurt’s departure meant nothing—even though Blaine knew it didn’t mean anything to her, not really, except maybe some sense of relief.

He wished he had a punching bag in the house. He would’ve asked for one, but he knew his dad would jump all over it as some sign of the Great Straight Hope, clap Blaine on the back and comment on how he was finally becoming A Real Man. It was already bad enough dealing with the constant insinuations he made about Blaine’s lack of stereotypical masculinity in order to backhandedly insult him.

So, no punching bag. But he needed to burn off some energy. Get out of this damn house. He strapped on his shoes and went for a run instead.

He’d always been good at running.

\--

Cooking was one of Blaine’s favorite things to do with Kurt. He wasn’t a master-chef-in-training like him, but he had a set of skills. He could hold his own. Not like Finn who could barely be trusted to boil water.

He liked the way they worked together when they cooked. He liked the closeness of it, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, turning and feeding bites of ingredients into each other’s mouths. And he liked watching Kurt work with his hands, kneading and slicing and sprinkling in deft, expert movements; it was really hot, to be honest. It was the same feeling he got as watching Kurt sing-- seeing someone be excellent at something they knew they were excellent at.

So Blaine was more than okay with spending their last evening in the kitchen making dinner. Kurt stationed himself at the stove and relegated Blaine to the cutting board to dice up the tomatoes and garlic. It wasn’t really any different from Friday night dinners previous; Mr. Hummel wandered in, grumbling about the lack of red meat but complimenting the smells, and Finn came in to whine about being starving and try to steal the cookies kept over the refrigerator until Kurt chased him back into the dining room, and Blaine served as taste tester, obediently opening his mouth to gauge the thickness of the sauce, the tenderness of the chicken. They listened to the top forty station on the radio and sang along, trading off verses and harmonizing on choruses, dancing their way from counter to stove to pantry and using ladles and wooden spoons as makeshift microphones.

Mr. Hummel walked back in just as Blaine was twirling Kurt on his way to the cutlery drawer.

“Just so you know, if you don’t get some food out here soon your brother’s gonna start eating his damn arm,” he said.

Kurt rolled his eyes. “Give us five minutes.”

They got the food on the table before Finn had resorted to self-cannibalism. After dinner, Kurt followed Mr. Hummel and Finn into the living room, and Blaine stacked the plates and carried them to the kitchen sink. He was rinsing the dirty dishes off when Carole came in behind him.

“Aren’t you sweet?” she said, touching her hand to the middle of his back.

Blaine shrugged one shoulder. “It’s the least I can do.”

“You know, it’s going to be very lonely without you boys around,” she said. Her palm was still there, resting between his shoulder blades, and he was acutely aware of its warm weight. “I’m already feeling the empty nest syndrome. Earlier today I took Kurt with me grocery shopping and almost teared up in the bread aisle when I realized it’s the last time we’ll get to do that for… well, a long time.”

She shook her head a little at herself like she thought she was being ridiculous, her laugh tapering off into a deep sigh.

“Finn won’t be that far away,” he reminded her helpfully. “I’m sure he’ll come home on the weekends wanting you to make him dinner and do his dirty laundry and all those other mom things.”

“You’re right, he probably will,” she agreed, smiling. “The thing is, I’ll probably look forward to it too. It’s funny. You think you can’t wait until your kids are old enough to get out of your hair and fly out there on their own, and then the day comes…” She trailed off before wrinkling her nose. “I’m sorry, you don’t need me getting all sentimental on you.”

“No, it’s fine. I get it,” he said. “Well, I don’t _get_ it, but I can imagine.”

She looked at him for a long moment. “This must be hard for you, too,” she said. “I know you and Kurt love each other very much.”

Her hand curled around the cap of his shoulder and squeezed it in such a gentle way his chest twinged. He thought of his own mother, telling him it was for the best, and his dad, just looking at him, his silence speaking multitudes. 

“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat and focusing on scrubbing the plate in his hand. He couldn’t look at Carole anymore, not when she was staring at him with such open motherly concern. “I guess I’m trying not to think about it too much.” 

Trying, and failing. It was all he was able to think about. How could he think of anything else?

“Blaine, I hope you know that if you ever need anything—our door is always open for you,” she told him.

Sometimes he wondered how much Kurt had told them about his own parents— if anything at all. Maybe it was some maternal instinct thing, and she could just tell what he needed to hear.

Part of him wanted to hug her then, because he knew she would wrap her arms around him and hold him back, and Carole was a great hugger. Instead he settled for a slightly wavering smile and said, “Thank you,” holding her gaze so she knew how much he meant it.

Somehow he’d never considered this: letting go of Kurt meant letting go of his family too. No more Friday night dinners. No more helping Kurt and Carole cook in the kitchen, or watching football with Mr. Hummel and Finn on Sundays. No more hanging around a house filled with easy conversation and amicable squabbling and laughter and warmth. It was just one more thing to lose.

“Blaine!”

Kurt hovered in the doorway, beaming and bouncing on his heels. He practically skipped across the kitchen and snatched Blaine’s hand, knotting their fingers together.

“I need to steal him away from you, sorry!” he said to Carole, not sounding particularly apologetic about it.

Blaine turned to her with his mouth open, but she waved him off and said, “Go on, I’ll take care of this,” so he let Kurt lead him from the room. Not that he likely could’ve stopped him from doing so anyway. He seemed pretty determined.

“What’s this about?” he asked as they headed for the stairs, half-laughing.

“I am a master of persuasion and convinced my dad to let you spend the night,” Kurt explained. “You’ll have to sleep on the couch as usual, of course, but at least this saves you the drive since you would’ve had to come straight back tomorrow morning anyway.”

As soon as they were safely inside Kurt’s bedroom, the door halfway shut behind them, Kurt all but pounced. He cupped both hands on the sides of Blaine’s face and brought their mouths together in a deep, getting-to-know-you kiss. Only, they’d known each other for a pretty long time.

When they broke apart for breath, Blaine said, “What’s going on?”

Kurt blinked a few times. “I was kissing you,” he said dryly. “You were kissing me?”

“But something about it was…”

“Magical?”

They smiled at each other, but that wasn’t what Blaine meant. 

“It’s always that,” he said, and Kurt did that thing where he halfway rolled his eyes at Blaine’s earnestness but was flushing all the way to his ears all the same. “But you seemed… intense.”

Kurt placed one hand on the side of Blaine’s neck, his gaze searching Blaine’s face. He pursed his lips together for a moment before he said, “I just… I’m going to miss this.”

And there it was. The elephant in the room. Months had dwindled down to days had dwindled down to mere hours. There was so little time. Blaine’s heart sank.

“Me too,” he said softly. 

Kurt drew him in for another kiss, slow and deep, and this time Blaine understood what he was doing—he was trying to memorize the feel of their mouths together, every little detail, so he could remember it later. Blaine closed his eyes and tried to do the same. He didn’t think he could ever forget this.

Kissing like that made everything kind of blurry. Blaine wasn’t exactly sure how much time has passed when he finally disengaged with more than a little reluctance.

“Your dad…” he said, darting a glance to the half-open door.

“He’s not going to bother us tonight,” Kurt said.

“Did he say that?”

“It was unspoken. Implied.” 

“Right,” Blaine said. “So I’m to believe he’s perfectly fine with you ravishing me right upstairs?”

“Blaine, please promise me this one thing,” Kurt said, very seriously. “Swear to me you will never, ever use the word ‘ravishing’ again.”

Blaine stuck out his lower lip in a mock pout. “What, you don’t want to _ravish_ me? You don’t want to eat me right up, pookie?”

“Oh my god, Blaine,” Kurt groaned, “the only person who can pull off ‘pookie’ is Maureen Johnson.” He stepped away and sat on his bed, leaning back on his elbows. “ _And_ you had to go and bring up my dad. Mood officially ruined.” 

“Sorry.” 

He joined Kurt on the bed, scooting up to the headboard. Kurt followed suit so they were both lying on their sides, facing each other, only inches between them.

“Since we’re already on the subject, how’s your dad dealing with things?” Blaine asked.

“Okay, I think,” Kurt said after a moment. “He’s been trying to have us spend as much time together as we can before I leave. Last night he even sat through Cabaret with me.”

“How about you?” he said. “I know how close you guys are.”

Kurt shrugged. “It’ll be hard,” he admitted. “It’s easier knowing Carole is around to help take care of him. I’ll still worry, but it’s not like he’ll be on his own.” He went quiet for a minute. “I’m kind of afraid it’ll be different once I’m actually away. I’m so used to him being there all the time. What if I can’t actually handle it? I know that sounds so stupid—”

“Not stupid,” Blaine assured him. “If I had a dad like yours, I’d worry about the same thing. But you’ll be okay.”

“I hope so,” Kurt said, sounding less certain.

“Well, I _know_ so,” Blaine said. “You’re Kurt Hummel. You can do anything.” He laced their fingers together, lifting Kurt’s hand to his mouth and kissing each knuckle in turn.

Kurt breathed out hard. “Is there any chance you’ve reconsidered the long distance option?”

Something in Blaine’s chest lurched. When he looked at Kurt and started to open his mouth, Kurt stopped him with a shake of his head.

“No, no, I know. I’m not trying to open up that can of worms again,” he said. “I know why we’re doing this. I just-- I hate it so much.”

“Me too,” Blaine agreed, voice so soft it was nearly a whisper. 

They were quiet then, quiet and close and breathing.

“Maybe it’d be better,” Kurt said slowly, “if we give each other some space.”

Blaine frowned. “It’ll be six hundred miles between us. How much more space do you need?”

“I don’t mean that. I mean phone calls, emails, texting… maybe we should declare a moratorium,” Kurt said, and then hastily added, “Just temporarily. Until we’re… adjusted. It’s going to be hard, and I think—I think in some twisted kind of way cutting the cord for a little while will make it easier. Does that make any sense?”

Every cell in Blaine’s body recoiled at the thought, but it only took a minute for him to understand. He could imagine what might happen otherwise— Kurt getting homesick, clinging to the familiar if things got hard, and Blaine clinging right back because he was too afraid to flounder on his own. Blaine knew himself too well; he wasn’t going to be able to untangle himself from this unless it was a sink-or-swim situation. Kurt had the right idea.

“It makes sense,” he finally said. “If that’s what you need, if that’ll make it easier for you, then that’s what we should do.”

A choked sound came from Kurt, intended to be a laugh but edging on a sob. “God, I can’t believe we’re making plans to let go,” he said thickly. 

“Is it sappy of me to want to quote Kate Winslet in Titanic right now?” Blaine said, trying to lighten things a little. He waggled his eyebrows for added effect.

“Yes, it is,” Kurt told him, “but you can go ahead and do it anyway, you cheeseball.”

He pitched his voice in an imitation of Rose Dawson’s hypothermia-induced raspiness. “I’ll never let go, Kurt,” he intoned, hoping to garner a smile out of it.

It worked, even if the smile didn’t quite reach Kurt’s eyes. Leaning in close, Blaine held Kurt’s face, kissed him.

“Hey,” he said lowly, tracing a thumb over Kurt’s jawline, “you still have me, okay? No matter what. Even if we’re stopping this, I’ll still—” _Love you_ , he wanted to say, but he couldn’t, it hurt too much— “be here. Whenever you need me. That’s not going to change.”

Kurt looked ready to cry, but he held back. “It won’t for me, either. I promise.”

“Good,” Blaine said, pressing their foreheads together.

In a little while he’d have to move downstairs to the couch to sleep. A little while after that, he’d be dropping Kurt off at the airport, and things would officially be over. But that was later. For right now, he could tell himself this moment would stretch out forever, perfect and wonderful and never-ending. There was still some time left to pretend.

\--

The next morning Blaine woke up to the sound of water running upstairs. A clumsy fumble for his cell phone on the coffee table informed him it was five minutes past six; Kurt had to be in the shower.

Blaine took the quilt he’d slept with and folded it neatly, draping it over the side of the couch, and then padded down the hall to the downstairs bathroom. His hair was rumpled from being slept on, and after a few minutes of trying to finger-comb it back into place, he gave up the futile attempt. He changed out of the silk pajama pants Kurt had lent him and back into yesterday’s dark jeans, scrubbed his face with a washcloth, tried to wake himself up the rest of the way.

It’d be a good half hour before Kurt was out of the shower and finished with his morning grooming rituals, so he decided to go for a coffee run. The line at the Lima Bean was long for a Saturday morning, and the barista was the new girl, slower than the others. Normally he wouldn’t mind the wait, but on today of all days, time was truly of the essence. When he rushed back to his car as quickly as he could without spilling on himself, righting both coffees in the cup holders, his phone started buzzing with a text from Kurt.

_Where are you?_

_ran out for a surprise,_ he texted back. _on my way back now._

_You know I hate surprises._

_you’ll like this one._

By the time Blaine got back to the house, Mr. Hummel and Carole were up too, making pancakes and scrambled eggs while Kurt leaned against the counter. His eyes lit up the second he spotted Blaine walking in, coffee in hand.

“Grande nonfat mocha,” Blaine announced as he passed it over. “Just the way you like it.”

“This,” Kurt said, pausing to take a brief sip, “is exactly what I needed. I keep telling them I’m too wound up to eat—”

“You’re having a real breakfast,” Carole insisted firmly. “No way are we putting you on a plane on an empty stomach.” 

“Yeah, and all that caffeine’s not gonna help with your nerves, you know,” Mr. Hummel pointed out.

“Nothing short of a horse tranquilizer will help with that,” Kurt deadpanned, but he didn’t fight them on it any further, either.

They all sat down to eat (Finn wandering in a few minutes later, beckoned by the smell of frying pancake batter) as a family. Kurt babbled on about the day’s plans—Rachel had already called twice that morning and sent a million texts; she’d be picking him up from the airport, and her dads had already assembled the bedframe in his room, but there were still approximately a hundred boxes to unpack. Blaine half-listened to the conversation, pushing food back and forth across his plate listlessly. His stomach was too tied up in knots to leave room for an appetite. 

He was half-heartedly spearing a stray piece of egg when he felt a hand on his knee under the table. Kurt’s. When he looked up, though, Kurt was telling Carole about the vegetarian diner down the block from their apartment Rachel was dying to take him to, gesturing animatedly with his fork in the other hand, not even looking at Blaine. He was just doing it because—because he could.

Suddenly Blaine was doing what he’d tried so hard not to do all summer: cataloguing everything in lasts, thinking about how much he was going to miss these fleeting, thoughtless displays of affection. He’d grown so used to having someone to place a hand on his knee or kiss his cheek or wrap an arm around his waist or hold his hand—and to have someone he could do the same to— that he’d started taking it for granted. Every little gesture felt so huge now. Weighted with the knowledge he wouldn’t have it tomorrow.

He covered Kurt’s hand with his own and squeezed lightly; Kurt glanced sideways at him, smiling, still talking. Blaine kept his hand there for the rest of the meal, because Kurt was there. Because he could.

\--

As he helped Kurt lug his suitcase down the stairs, he heard Kurt in front of him softly singing a bit of Leaving On A Jet Plane—probably not even thinking Blaine would hear at all, but he did, and he thought, _When will I hear him singing again? What if this is the last time?_

The thought alone was enough to stop him dead in his tracks.

He was just glad Kurt couldn’t see him because if his face showed anything of how he felt on the inside, it would look like—however heartbreak looked.

\--

There were so many things Blaine wanted to say during the drive to the airport. It was all jumbled in his head, though, and Mr. Hummel was sitting up front driving, so he settled for holding Kurt’s hand in his.

They waited in line together for Kurt to check in his luggage and pick up his ticket. And then they were walking to the security checkpoint. The furthest they could go with him.

Blaine hung back to give Mr. Hummel and Kurt their privacy as they said their goodbyes. He couldn’t hear what they were saying to each other, but they were both teary-eyed and smiling, and their last hug lasted a long time.

Finally Kurt faced him. Blaine opened his mouth to say something, but for all of his thinking on the ride over, he couldn’t find the words. Kurt didn’t seem to have any, either, because he just stared for a moment before rushing forward and throwing his arms around Blaine, pulling him in tightly.

“I am going to miss you so much,” he whispered into the curve of Blaine’s neck. 

Blaine squeezed him harder. “I’ll miss you more.”

“I couldn’t have done this without you.”

“Yes, you could’ve. This was always going to happen. It’s all you.”

Kurt kissed him full on the mouth then, tasting like tears. Maybe he didn’t care who saw, maybe he wasn’t even thinking about that. Blaine wanted it to go on forever, but too soon Kurt broke away, both hands cradling his cheeks.

“Don’t you know by now?” he said. “Blaine, you changed everything.”

They clung to each other for a minute more. It took all Blaine had to be the one who stepped away first.

“Go,” he said, making shooing motions with his hands, trying to smile, “get on your plane, conquer the world.”

Kurt walked over to the security line; Blaine watched him take off his shoes-- modest by Kurt standards-- and go through the metal detector. He watched him walk down the terminal, pause for one final backward glance, fingers wiggling in a wave goodbye, and then disappear around the corner. Out of sight.

Blaine’s eyes were swimming a little, and he started to turn away, but Mr. Hummel caught his upper arm. Tugged him into a hug. For a moment Blaine was too surprised to react, but Mr. Hummel’s arms were still holding on, so he let his body relax, planted his face into Mr. Hummel’s shoulder and stayed there.

After a while Mr. Hummel let go, but he set a solid hand on the back of Blaine’s neck the way Blaine imagined a dad would do. A good dad, not like his.

“Come on, kid,” he said to Blaine, a little gruffly, “let’s get out of here.”

\--

When they got back to the Hummel-Hudson house, he left Mr. Hummel with a quick goodbye, climbed into his car at the foot of the drive and shut the door. He sat with his hands on the steering wheel, taking shuddery breaths to compose himself, and checked the time on his phone. Kurt would be thirty-some thousand feet in the air right now.

Blaine dialed the number before he could think too much about it. The call went straight to voice mail.

“Hey, Kurt,” he said, impressed with himself for how calm he sounded. “It’s me. I keep thinking about the things I should’ve said today. I just wanted to tell you… I know you’re nervous, but everything is going to be fine. Trust me, New York City isn’t going to know what hit it. You are… unbelievably talented and the strongest person I’ve ever met. If anyone can make it there, it’s you. So if you ever feel like giving up, even for a second, don’t. I know you can do this. I believe in you, so much. I guess that’s it. That’s all I wanted to say.”

He ended the call there and let his phone drop into the passenger seat. And then he couldn’t hold it in any longer— his head bent to the steering wheel, and he let the tears he’d pushed down all day bubble to the surface until he was bawling so uncontrollably hard his chest felt like it was caving in. He realized that as much as he had no right, he still felt abandoned. Once upon a time Kurt had told him he’d never say goodbye. He hadn’t used that word, neither of them had, but that’s what it was, and it hurt. It hurt in a way Blaine didn’t know he still could.

Inside, he could feel himself closing off or closing up, as if something in him had already decided he would never love anything in his life as much again. He tried to imagine how he’d ever sing again when right now he couldn’t even breathe.

It took another fifteen minutes before he’d stopped sobbing hard enough to be able to drive.

He told himself it couldn’t hurt like this forever. It felt like a lie.


	2. Chapter 2

When Blaine managed to not have another nervous breakdown over the next couple of days, he took it as a sign that he was a strong person who didn’t need someone else, like Kurt, to complete him. He was perfectly comfortable in the knowledge that Kurt would one day find true love and settle down with someone else. Somewhat comfortable. Okay, he wasn’t comfortable in the least, and he was pretty convinced he himself would die old and alone, but he wasn’t going to let that get in the way of Kurt’s happiness.

He hadn’t exactly rebounded in the wake of Kurt’s absence, but he was more or less functioning. He deleted Kurt from his Facebook and didn’t cry about it. He caught up on the latest episode of 1 Girl 5 Gays by himself— a show he used to watch religiously with Kurt—and didn’t cry. He poured himself cereal in the morning and didn’t cry into the bowl. He took showers and didn’t cry while he was in them, even though he wanted to sometimes. He only seriously considered calling Kurt and begging him to forget about breaking up twenty times, and never got any further than dialing the first three digits of Kurt’s number. So he thought he was coping pretty well, all things considered.

Over the days his phone rang a few times, but he didn’t answer it. There was no one he wanted to talk to when he was feeling this messed up. 

Except exactly one week after Kurt had left, it wouldn’t stop ringing. It woke him up from his nap, the one he’d allowed himself as a reward for leaving the house even if only to swing by the Lima Bean, where the barista had asked him where his “other half” was. His good moods over the past week had been like baby seedlings: in need of nurturing and easily crushed, and that one comment was enough to send him spiraling. When he got back home, he went upstairs, puffed out his cheeks dramatically and fell face-first into his bed, because life sucked. He lay there listening to his favorite Katy Perry album—his musical form of comfort food— on repeat, where he thought about how sometimes he really did feel like a plastic bag. Katy Perry just _got_ him.

Somewhere in the midst of his mopefest he’d drifted off, and now his insistent ringtone was interrupting. He tried ignoring it, but the person kept calling back, and after the fourth consecutive time, he rolled over and picked up the call.

“Hello?” His voice cracked a little, still emerging from sleep.

“Hey.” It was Tina. “Are your parents home?”

“My parents?” Blaine sat up, a little disoriented, and put his feet on the floor. “No. They’re at work.”

“Good. I’m coming over.”

She hung up before he could question her further.

Fifteen minutes later the doorbell rang. And sure enough there was Tina, standing on his front step with a plastic bag in hand.

She looked him up and down appraisingly. “You’re not looking as bad off as I thought you might be,” she said. “I was afraid I might have to do something drastic like throw you in the shower or pull a Moonstruck on you.”

Blaine touched the side of his face. “No slapping necessary.”

He let her inside, led her to the living room and sat on the couch. She sat next to him with her legs folded underneath her.

“How are you?” she asked.

He half-nodded. “I’m okay.”

“Liar.”

“I’ve been better,” he admitted. He paused. “What did you do after Mike left?”

It wasn’t the exact same thing—at least Tina and Mike hadn’t ended things—but he figured she had an idea of what he was feeling.

“I spent a week posting depressing emo poetry and a bunch of black and white pictures of dead flowers to my tumblr,” she said. She reached over and put a hand on his knee. “Don’t worry, I’ve been through this before. I have all the post-breakup essentials right here.”

Tina held up the plastic bag and shook it.

“Really?” he said. He leaned in closer, curiosity winning out over his funk for the moment. “What’s in there?”

“I brought this,” she whipped a dvd at him, “this,” she fished an ice cream carton from the bag, “and this.” An empty shoebox.

Blaine eyed her uncertainly. “Okay, I think I get what the first two are for, but you’re going to have to explain the shoebox.”

“I forgot this is your first introduction to the Broken Hearts Club,” she said. “The shoebox is a vital part of the breakup process. You put everything that reminds you of your ex in here-- gifts, photos, whatever-- and hide it somewhere so you’re not looking at it all the time. It’s like a cleansing.”

He didn’t know if he was ready for that yet, but Tina seemed convinced it was the best course of action, and between the two of them she was the expert in this area.

They watched the dvd—Harold & Maude, Tina’s favorite movie of all time—huddled under a blanket on the couch, sharing the ice cream. Afterward they went up to his room and filled the shoebox with all of his Kurt-related mementos: the framed photos on his nightstand and dresser, the cologne Kurt had given him for his birthday, the card from their first anniversary, last year’s Regionals program Blaine had saved because it reminded him of those first days together, the Broadway anthology he’d borrowed from Kurt and forgotten to return. All of it went in the box, which in turn went on the highest shelf of his closet, crammed all the way back into a corner.

He closed the closet door and surveyed his newly Kurt-free room; it didn’t look much different.

“I thought it’d be… emptier,” he said, surprised.

“Of course it’s not empty,” Tina told him. “There’s a lot more in your life than just Kurt.” She perched on the edge of his bed and grinned up at him. “Now, let’s talk about how awesome it’s going to be being in charge of glee club this year.”

\--

First day of school, and it was one of those times Blaine was minding his own business, which was to say, it could’ve been any point in his life, ever, because he was always minding his own business, when suddenly Jacob Ben-Israel ambushed him in the hallway. He stuck a microphone under Blaine’s chin and basically flattened him against the lockers.

“Blaine Anderson!” Jacob squawked. “What is your response to rumors circulating that New Directions has lost all of its star power with the graduation of Rachel Berry? Has glee club jumped the shark?”

Blaine noticed the camera over Jacob’s shoulder and stood a little straighter, preening, angled slightly the left. It was his better side, after all.

“We’re sad to see everyone go, but I have total faith we’ll find some really talented people to fill the void,” he said. He flashed his most winning smile at the camera.

“Speaking of filling the void, word on the blogosphere has it Kurt Hummel is no longer filling yours.” Jacob paused to leer at the camera before looking at Blaine again. “What do you have to say about reports that you spent your summer crying like a little girl and recreating sad Christina Aguilera music videos in front of the bathroom mirror?”

Blaine’s eyes went wide. “Tina told you about that?” he said, and then sputtered a little. “I mean… I have no comment.”

“Just one last question—how does it feel to have upgraded from McKinley’s Other Gay to Main Gay? And is it true you soak your head in a vat of oil for an hour every morning before coming to school?”

Okay, that was enough for one day. Blaine pushed the microphone out of his face and hurried along down the hallway to his class.

This was going to be a strange year.

\--

At the start of their first glee club meeting, Mr. Schuester waltzed into the room with a thick stack of papers in hand and set them on top of the piano. Brad glared at him, but Mr. Schuester didn’t notice, just strode to the front of the room.

“All right!” he said, clapping his hands together with a broad grin. “Welcome back to glee club, everyone!”

His voice sounded too loud for the room with only the four of them there, surrounded by a sea of empty chairs.

“Mr. Schue, we have a serious problem,” Artie said. “Look at us! We’re like what’s left over after a hurricane, or when Kirstie Alley has access to an all-you-can-eat buffet. We have to face facts: New Directions is a shell of its former self.”

“Come on, guys,” Mr. Schue said. “Quit it with the doom and gloom. Are you kidding? We’ve got a leg up on the competition already.”

“How?”

“No other show choir has the de- _licious_ vocal stylings of one Mister Artie Abrams. Or the beautiful dulcet tones of Miss Tina Cohen-Chang. We’ve got Blaine Anderson, one of the best show choir frontmen I’ve had the fortune of knowing. And there’s Sugar Motta, who—uh—”

“It’s okay, I know it’s hard to find a word that fully conveys the Motta Magic. I go with ‘awesomeocity,’” Sugar said. She sat back, tilted her head to one side. “You’re welcome.”

“That’s great and all, Mr. Schue, but there’s still only four of us,” Tina pointed out. “That’s not even half the members we need to compete.”

Sugar looked thoughtful. “I could ask my dad to buy some members for us.”

“Well, you’ll be happy to know that won’t be necessary this year. I come bearing good news.” Mr. Schuester picked the thick ream of papers off the piano and held it up. “ _This_ , ladies and gentlemen, is the signup sheet for this year’s glee club auditions.”

The social paradigm, it seemed, had shifted. Everyone was clamoring to be part of glee club. Being in glee club meant being a national champion. Being in glee club meant a potential ticket out of Lima Loserdom. Being in glee club meant being a winner. It even meant being _cool_.

That was going to take some getting used to.

\--

The auditions were… interesting.

Some of them were just decent, but nothing to write home about. Some of them sounded like cats being stepped on. Repeatedly. In steel toe boots.

The most surreal element wasn’t the amount of people who showed up—it was how they showed up. Dressed like bizarro world versions of former New Directions members. Girls in animal sweaters and knee socks like they were the hottest trend. Tall athletic boys in puffy oversized vests and sneakers. They all proudly proclaimed before their audition pieces that they were THE NEXT RACHEL BERRY or THE NEXT FINN HUDSON or THE NEXT MERCEDES JONES.

There were even a few Kurt Hummel-lites. Blaine wasn’t sure what to make of that. If it meant something. The idea that Kurt might’ve inspired anyone to be open about themselves was sweet, but also sad since he wasn’t around to see it. Of course Kurt would probably be weirded out if he knew; maybe Tina would tell him.

It was crazy to think that so many students had gone from reviling the glee club to now idolizing its legacy members to the point of emulation.

It was crazy to think that anybody could believe they were the “next” Rachel or Kurt or Santana or anyone else, as if there could ever be another, of any of them.

A few people stood out as promising: a tall black boy who absolutely killed a rendition of Otis Redding; Luke the football player—broad-shouldered and sweet-faced—whose version of Free Bird was a little rough around the edges, but had potential. A few girls—a bubbly, nerdy Mathlete with a big voice, a pretty blonde who sang a lovely, folksy Emmylou Harris cover, a girl with legs up to her ears who danced up a storm to Kesha’s latest radio single.

In-between all of that was a lot of crap.

The last audition of the day was a short girl with long, wavy red hair, wearing a demure gingham dress.

“My name is Ginger Kensington,” she said into the microphone. She sounded a little timid, barely able to look them in the eye. “I’m auditioning for glee club, soprano.”

She nodded to Brad, who looked at the sheet music and started to play. The first few chords had sounded out before Artie interrupted.

“Wait wait, stop right there,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I cannot sit through another sub-par performance of Don’t Rain On My Parade.”

Blaine didn’t want to say it, but he was glad Artie had. They’d already sat through far too many screechy, off-key renditions of this song. All of them were half-assed copies that couldn’t touch Rachel Berry’s version, even if he only had the YouTube Sectionals performance quality to go by.

The girl’s face darkened. “I am not sub-par.”

“Hey, come on guys,” Mr. Schuester said, trying for diplomacy, “everyone deserves to audition with whatever they like.” He looked up at Ginger. “But do you by chance have another song?”

“This is the song I practiced,” she said, back to being a little uncertain.

Blaine lifted a hand. “Is there anything else you have? A song that you really love? That tells us who you are?”

“Like something you’d sing in the shower,” Tina added.

Ginger fidgeted, then nodded. “Well… there is something.” She turned to Brad. “How well do you know Adele’s catalogue?”

Five minutes later she was standing in front of them belting out Chasing Pavements.

And it was definitely not sub-par.

Blaine looked at everyone else to see if they were hearing what he was—and if their faces were anything to go by, they were just as impressed. This girl—Ginger—had a crazy voice coming out of such a little body.

Maybe there was hope for New Directions yet.

\--

The newly engraved name plate outside the guidance office read MRS. PILLSBURY-SCHUESTER. When Blaine poked his head in, Mrs. Pillsbury was sorting through a towering mountain of paperwork.

“Blaine!” She caught a piece of paper slipping from the top of the pile and gave him a sunny smile. “Come in, come in.”

Mrs. Pillsbury seemed to have prepared for his appointment; he’d hardly sat down in the chair before she was pulling a NYADA pamphlet from her drawer and sliding it across the desk toward him.

“I know you’re probably familiar with the process after seeing Kurt go through it last year,” she said. “You’ll have to fill out the application, and you’ll want to see about getting a letter of recommendation and start working on a personal statement.”

Blaine leafed through the glossy pamphlet, looking at the photo spread of the campus, the state-of-the-art auditorium. Places Kurt would just be discovering.

NYADA was definitely on his list, but he had a few other schools in mind too: NYU, Cornell, Columbia, Oberlin. And possibly Bowling Green as a safety, though only as a last resort. 

When he rattled off that list for Mrs. Pillsbury, she blinked at him in surprise. “Wow. Okay,” she said. “Well, I don’t have any information on those offhand, but I’d be more than happy to look into it for you!”

Blaine left her office with the NYADA brochure and a promise to check back in next week.

He found Tina in the hallway and leaned against the bank of lockers next to hers. “Do you think it’s weird of me?” he asked.

“Are we talking about your footwear situation?” she said. “Because Sugar is convinced you have some kind of sock allergy.”

“What? No, not that.” He looked down at his shoes with a frown. If anyone in this school read GQ, they’d know that the sockless trend was big in men’s fashion right now. “I just got out of Mrs. Pillsbury’s office. We were talking about college plans, you know, where I’d like to go. I think she was surprised I want to apply to five schools… is that weird? Is it too many?”

“Of course not. I have three picked out already.”

“Yeah?”

“University of Michigan, the Cincinnati Conservatory, and Oklahoma City.”

Blaine nodded, and then realized something. “None of those are in New York.”

“I know.” Tina shut her locker and turned to him. “I’m not choosing my college based on my boyfriend. Those schools have some of the best musical theater programs in the country.” She shrugged. “Anyway, maybe later I’ll decide to try for somewhere on the east coast too. It’s only the first week of school. I have some time to figure it out.”

She held out an arm to him, and he took it, walking with her down the hallway.

“I guess it’s a little early for me to be obsessing over this already, huh?” he said.

“No, it’s good,” she assured him. “You’re making sure you have options. Just… I hope you’re not trying to fast-forward to next year already.”

That was sort of exactly what he was doing, except he hadn’t really realized it until she pointed it out to him like that.

“I guess I have a very early onset of Senioritis,” he joked.

She nudged him in the side. “This year is going to be amazing,” she said. “Trust me, there’s so much that’s going to happen, it’ll fly by. You’ll see.”

\--

A week later he had a ton of printouts from Mrs. Pillsbury on all the schools he planned to apply to and gotten Mr. Schuester to agree to write a recommendation letter. 

Glee Club Captain was a new title to add to his application résumé. There wasn’t an official vote or anything, but he and Tina and Artie had pretty much unofficially risen to the ranks of glee club co-captains, and it worked out well; Tina was good with the ideas and organization, Artie was good with telling people when they were screwing up and how to fix it, and Blaine was good at encouragement, highlighting people’s strengths, and making sure no one throttled each other.

Because sometimes Artie delivered his hard truths in a way that was a little too blunt, like when he told the new girl Amber that her song was a pitchy hot mess that would make Amy Winehouse roll over in her grave, and she fled the room in tears. Tina had spent almost an hour just coaxing the poor girl out of a bathroom stall after that one.

“Artie, you can’t be that mean,” she said afterward, when they were the last ones in the choir room. “That’s not what we’re about.”

Artie just crossed his arms and said, “Look, it’s not personal. It’s about making sure we can pull this team together and actually have a shot at Sectionals. We aren’t going to win anything if all we do is coddle everyone’s egos.”

“And we’re not going to win if you bulldoze over everyone’s self-esteem either. If you keep telling Amber that she’s not good enough, after a while she’s not going to want to sing at all,” Tina shot right back, and Blaine had the feeling she was speaking from personal experience on that.

“I get what you’re saying,” Blaine said to Artie, and before Tina could protest, “but Tina’s right, too. Some people need positive reinforcement. So just… maybe try to soften the blow next time?”

They both grumbled a little but agreed, and that was a relief. He could play mediator and diplomat. Anyway, New Directions was never going to get its act together if the three of them couldn’t work on the same page. 

The weirdest thing about glee club this year was realizing he’d gone from new kid to old timer in such a short period. All these new recruits—and geez, they looked so _young_ ¬—had to be taught show choir rules, and it meant mandatory Booty Camp for every single person to try and evaluate their skill levels, and it was like starting over from scratch. There were definitely some standout talents, for sure, but none of it mattered if they couldn’t gel together.

There was a lot of work to be done and a lot to live up to.

\--

It wasn’t a surprise when Artie and Sugar announced they were dating—anyone could’ve seen that one coming as soon as Rory’s visa was denied.

It felt a little weird, being the only single one out of the four. Artie and Sugar were attached at the hip, and a lot of the time Tina was attached to her cell phone, texting Mike, and that left Blaine sort out on the outside of things.

But there was glee club to focus on, and the NYADA application; Mr. Schuester pulled him aside after rehearsal one day and gave him the recommendation letter he’d written.

“If there’s anything else I can do, just let me know,” he said to Blaine.

The letter was glowing, full of phrases like _exemplary work ethic_ and _wonderful collaborative spirit_ and _natural showman with unlimited potential_ , and Blaine made an extra copy just for himself, because… well, it was an excellent ego boost.

He respected Mr. Schuester—he wasn’t perfect, but he cared, and he _tried_ , and trying wasn’t something most adults did in Blaine’s experience—and he really did want to be the person described in the letter, the person who would do right by the hard work Rachel and Kurt and everyone else had put into New Directions to get them where they were.

The first test of the year was the Don’t Text and Drive assembly Principal Figgins put together. Amber wanted them to do Jesus Take The Wheel, Artie suggested Little Red Corvette, and there was some arguing over that until Luke the football player came up with the idea of singing Drive My Car, which Ginger backed immediately (before turning totally red, and oh, Blaine thought, there was definitely something going on there), and everyone else agreed, because who didn’t like the Beatles?

The performance went well—no one from the audience heckled, no one flubbed any lyrics, and even the choreography was pretty smooth except for when Luke spun the wrong way, but Ginger caught his arm and turned him in the right direction at the last second—and the crowd ate it up. That was something else that would take time to get used to: no longer being at the bottom of the social pyramid.

Afterward he searched out Tina, but she was in a corner with her phone glued to her ear—probably talking to Mike, and Blaine didn’t want to interrupt since Mike’s crazy dance class schedule left him with only brief windows of time to catch up with Tina as it was. Artie had Sugar on his lap and they were half-talking, half-making out.

Mr. Schuester came up and clapped him on the back. “You guys did great!” he said. “I have to admit, I’ve been a little worried. I know we got off to a rough start this year, with all the shakeups…”

“Yeah, I think everyone’s starting to get the hang of it now,” Blaine said, before Mr. Schuester could do something like bring up Kurt’s name. “We might just pull off a Sectionals victory.”

“Hey, you can do it. I believe in you guys,” Mr. Schuester said, and the thing was, he sounded like he meant it. Which was maybe a little naive or a little sweet or a little bit of both. That was probably what made him a good teacher.

\--

He found himself worrying about Kurt constantly. Was he lonely? Overwhelmed by school and the city? Was he okay, and if he wasn’t, would he even admit it to anyone? Blaine loved Rachel, he did, but it was no secret that she had a tendency to get so wrapped up in herself she forgot about the rest of the world. And there was no one else who’d know what to look for. At least Blaine was surrounded by familiar faces, a familiar school; Kurt was, more or less, on his own in uncharted waters. Kurt could be floundering and be too stubborn to tell anyone about it. Maybe that was why he hadn’t called, like it was some matter of pride.

Of course, there was another alternative— maybe Kurt was doing swimmingly in New York. Maybe Kurt was preoccupied with impressing the hell out of his professors and making friends around every corner and exploring the city and basically having the time of his life, so much so he’d decided he was better off not talking to Blaine, or had just forgotten about him altogether.

Blaine only entertained that theory in his most pathetic, paranoid moments.

Tina had been right, though, about this year keeping him busy; there was glee club, of course, but also the school musical. Artie was directing again and wanted to do Chicago. Blaine got the part of Billy Flynn, which was awesome, but then there was this whole thing where Artie was pushing to cast Sugar in the role of Velma, and Tina just about blew a gasket.

“You only want to give her the part because you think she’ll dump you if you don’t!” she yelled.

As with most ugly confrontations better taken place in private, this one was unfolding in front of the whole glee club. And Mr. Schuester’s conflict intervention skills hadn’t improved any from last year, so no one was stepping in to stop it.

Artie turned tomato red. “Theater is an art form, Tina, and art is subjective—”

“Don’t give me that!” She looked ready to haul off and punch him in the face. Blaine had never seen her fly off the handle like this before. “I earned that role and you know it!”

Tina stormed out of the room in a fashion that would’ve made Rachel Berry proud. Artie was still red-faced, not looking anybody in the eye.

Next to Blaine, Ginger’s eyes went comically wide. “Does that happen a lot?” she asked in a small voice.

“Yes,” he said, then got up and followed Tina into the hall.

When he caught up to her, she wasn’t crying or anything. She just looked pissed.

“I hate him,” she seethed. “I really hate him.”

Blaine touched her elbow. “No you don’t,” he said. “I know he’s being a jerk right now, but—”

“Please don’t defend him to me.” She slumped against the wall, the anger seeming to drain out of her. “You don’t get it, Blaine. It’s so easy for you. People just hand you the spotlight on a silver platter.”

He wanted to protest—to point out that it took a lot of effort on his end to make it look so easy, that there’d been a lot else in life where things didn’t work out in his favor—but he knew what she meant, and he knew none of it would make her feel any better. It was best to let her vent for the moment.

“I’m not like Rachel. I don’t like fighting for attention like this,” she continued. “It’s not who I am. I just thought if I waited for my turn, it would come. I’ve been patient. This should be my time. _That_ should be my role. I was better, and he knows it. I was better.”

“You were,” Blaine agreed. He slowly put an arm around her shoulders, sighed silently in relief when she leaned into the touch. “If it’s any consolation, Artie looked pretty guilty after you left. I think he knows you’re right.”

Blaine’s instincts turned out to be correct on that one—in the end, Artie changed his mind and realized it would be ridiculous to give the role to Sugar over Tina. Under different circumstances he may have given her the Roxie role, but Ginger had blown everyone out of the water with her audition, so there was no question about that.

Artie dressed up his decision reversal in a lot of talk about artistic integrity and respecting the craft, but Tina later told Blaine that Artie apologized to her in private and they’d smoothed things over, so there was that. Sugar didn’t break up with him over it, either, because he cast her as one of the murderesses and put her in charge of costuming, and she was just happy to have a job that required everyone listen to her without question.

The drama—on stage and off—kept Blaine preoccupied; that on top of glee rehearsals, researching for college applications, and his regular homework, which paled in comparison to Dalton’s rigorous workload but still took up a lot of time. Even with the distractions he thought about Kurt more than was likely healthy. It was like his brain hadn’t totally caught up to reality yet, and sometimes he found himself automatically heading toward Kurt’s old locker in-between classes or searching for him in the Lima Bean before he remembered Kurt wouldn’t be there.

Sometimes (okay, a lot of times) he wanted more than anything to pick up the phone and call, or send him an email, but he knew he couldn’t. Kurt had asked for space, and it was the least Blaine could do to give him that, respect his wishes.

He couldn’t talk to Kurt, and he couldn’t talk to anyone _about_ Kurt— well, there was Tina. Blaine was grateful for her friendship, knew she would listen if he went to her, would probably even tell him how Kurt was doing if he asked, but it wasn’t fair to put her in that position. It was easier for everyone involved to just avoid the topic completely.

The first person to bring up Kurt around him was Sebastian Smythe.

That hadn’t been planned. Pretty much nothing with Sebastian ever was. 

It’d been at the NYADA mixer; Blaine was by himself beside the food table, watching as Harmony fluttered around congratulating herself and her friends on their admittedly impressive rendition of Everything’s Coming Up Roses. Most of the time he had no problem fitting into any social situation—it was something he prided himself on, his ability to get along with just about everybody—but these people were… intense, and not interested in talking to him beyond rattling off their extensive theater credentials. So he’d retreated to the punch bowl, still smarting a little from being Patti Lup-owned and thinking about what a challenge the Unitards would be at Sectionals this year, never mind the competition for NYADA.

“Well, well,” said Sebastian, who had the uncanny ability to materialize out of nowhere, “of all the low rent hotel convention rooms in the world…”

Blaine had to do a double take. “What are you doing here?” Oh, god, was Sebastian— “Are you applying for NYADA?”

Was this some cruel joke? Was he doomed to never escape Sebastian? He was always popping up when Blaine didn’t want him around—though by now, that was any time ever, since Blaine _never_ wanted him around. The guy would just not disappear. End of the world and it’d be Sebastian and the cockroaches roaming the apocalyptic wasteland.

“Yeah because that’s just what I need, to spend four years surrounded by Streisand-worshipping prissy queens,” Sebastian said, rolling his eyes. “My grandfather graduated from Georgetown, my father graduated from Georgetown, and I will be carrying on the proud Smythe family tradition of graduating from Georgetown and pursuing a career in dirty politics. Who knows, you might just be looking at your future first gay president. Well, openly gay. I’m pretty sure Kennedy would bang anything on two legs.”

Sebastian as leader of the free world. Now there was a terrifying thought.

“That’s great,” Blaine said flatly. “So what are you doing here, stalking me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m only here for the fresh blood. I bet they all bleed rainbows.” He raised his cup and gestured to one of the boys across the room. “I’ve got my eye on that one. Give me five minutes and I’ll be _blowing_ him away with my charm.”

Sebatian’s smirk didn’t just imply something filthy, it added color illustrations.

At Blaine’s unimpressed look, he added, “You can relax. I know better than to try with you when you’re practically married.”

Blaine didn’t say anything, but his face must have given him away because Sebastian’s eyebrows flew up to his hairline. He cracked a delighted grin.

“Wow, congratulations on gnawing your way out of that bear trap. I didn’t know you had it in you,” he said. “Now I get the pouty face. PTSD, huh?”

He meant post-traumatic stress disorder. He meant Kurt. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Blaine said hotly.

“Ooh, so Hummel dumped you, then? Harsh. But not surprising. I’m sure there are guys lined up all the way to Times Square looking to get a piece of that bitchy twink action. Not really my thing, but some people are into that.” Sebastian dropped an arm next to Blaine, trapping him between the table and Sebastian’s body. “You know, the offer still stands. You and me. Now that the boyfriend’s out of the way…”

God, he couldn’t be serious. But it looked like he was.

“Not in a million years,” Blaine said through gritted teeth. “Even if you hadn’t nearly taken out one of my eyes.”

“Come on, you’re still mad about that? I thought it was all water under the bridge. We sang our kumbayas and everything.”

Letting go wasn’t the same as forgetting. 

Sebastian stepped back, looking suddenly bored. “Whatever,” he said. “Suit yourself. You’re not that special, Blaine.”

Sebastian sauntered off, leaving Blaine to stare after him, standing in a room full of kids his age with bigger voices and more star power, thinking about Kurt hundreds of miles away surrounded by these same kinds of people. Smart and attractive and talented and so, so many of them. 

He was starting to think Sebastian was right.

\--

His father found the mostly-completed NYADA application a few days later.

“It’s not the only school I’m applying to,” Blaine said when he walked into the kitchen and saw his dad standing over it. He hadn’t been asked to explain himself, but he felt the need to anyway. “But I think I have a good shot, and… it’s what I love to do.”

He hadn’t mentioned it before, not because he thought his parents would do anything drastic like try to stop him from applying or forbid it, but he just knew they wouldn’t be thrilled about it either. It wasn’t that they didn’t want him to be happy. It was that their idea of what would—or, more accurately, _should_ —make him happy had never really lined up with his.

His father touched the top page with one hand, and then stepped back from the kitchen counter. 

“Well,” he said finally, “it’s your life,” and walked right out of the room, and Blaine thought, well, that was just about right, wasn’t it? It was his life, his life to screw up, and his parents weren’t going to interfere either way. He was on his own.

\--

Opening night was always Blaine’s favorite—seeing the final product, the costume designs, the built and painted sets, the lighting, the way it felt to step out on the stage for the first time in front of a packed house. It was the payoff for the long weeks of rehearsal, the countless notes on vocals and line readings and blocking from Artie, and it just made him really proud to see everything come together after all the chaos and hard work leading up to it.

The musical went off without a hitch, and Blaine was flying high after the curtain call. Everyone was, backstage filled with people undressing from their costumes and buzzing about how well the first performance had gone, arranging rides to Artie’s after party at Breadstix.

“You were amazing,” he told Ginger. “I told you you’d be great.”

He was sitting on a stool between her and Tina, all three of them wiping off the stage makeup. Even under the blusher, Ginger’s cheeks went flush red.

“It was nothing compared to how Tina did,” she said modestly. 

Blaine caught Tina’s reflection in the mirror. She was still glowing. All of them were.

“Yeah, you killed out there. I can’t believe there was anyone alive left in the audience,” he said to her. And it was the truth. She’d truly come alive onstage.

A delivery guy walked up to them, presented Tina with a bouquet of lush red roses. She took them in her arms, her mouth a delighted o of surprise, and read the card.

“They’re from Mike,” she said, and she had that look Blaine knew too well, the look of someone in love.

Ginger was gazing across the room at Luke the football player with that same expression. And Blaine remembered that too: the feeling of promise, the hope that something might happen.

He didn’t have what either of them had, not anymore. He didn’t have anything, he hadn’t even heard Kurt’s voice in months, and it didn’t feel fair that it still hurt this badly.

Maybe it wasn’t going to get better. Maybe he’d just have to learn how to live with it.

\--

The weekend before Thanksgiving, Blaine drove his car to Hummel Tire & Lube. It did need an oil change, but there was also some dumb, hopeless part of him secretly wishing to run into Mr. Hummel or Finn or god, even Kurt. He hadn’t seen any of them since the day Kurt left.

He did see a familiar face, but not the one he most wanted. It was Puck. He still had the Mohawk, but he looked a little older even though it hadn’t been more than a few months. Maybe it was the uniform.

Puck came over and popped the hood, tinkered around underneath. Blaine stood outside next to him, his fists shoved deep in his pockets, pulling down the collar of his coat to protect from the shivery autumn weather, and they talked about things: New Directions winning Sectionals, Puck’s job at the shop, how Quinn and Mercedes and everyone else was faring. Blaine spoke to them online often enough, and sometimes he’d get texts from Mercedes or Mike about random stuff; they all seemed happy.

Puck mentioned Mr. Hummel being in D.C., but he didn’t say anything about Kurt. Blaine couldn’t come up with the courage to ask until Puck rang him up at the counter.

“So hey, have you heard anything about Kurt being in town?” he asked, attempting to sound casual, like he wasn’t desperate for an answer.

Puck didn’t look up from counting cash. “Nah. Last I heard he’s waiting until Christmas to come back.”

“Oh,” he said. He schooled his face into a mask of nonchalance. “Makes sense.”

Thanksgiving meant driving out to his uncle’s house, sitting around the table with various extended family members he didn’t know very well and listening to his divorced aunt recount her recent church retreat, some kind of weekend thing where middle-aged matrons went to pray for God to send them wealthy men and Republican presidents. It was all really boring and somewhat excruciating, but no one cared that he spent most of the time texting Tina under the table, and at least there was pumpkin pie at the end.

Two days later Tina called him; she was crying when he picked up.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, alarmed at the sounds coming from the other end of the line. “Did something happen? Is someone hurt?”

“No, it’s not that,” she choked out. “Mike and I broke up.”

He drove to her house armed with Some Like It Hot and a pint of rocky road.

“I thought it’d be great to see him again, you know? But it wasn’t the same,” she explained. “I don’t know. It felt so different. I don’t know what changed.”

Blaine pet her hair from where she had her head leaned on his shoulder, feeling like an ass for all of those times he’d felt pangs of jealousy hearing about their relationship.

She let out a sniffly sigh and passed him the ice cream. “I was thinking too how I’m not going to New York for school, and can I really do another four years of this? It’s so hard making time for each other. It just wasn’t working.”

“It sounds like you did what’s right for both of you,” he said. “You can’t force something that’s not there.”

It made him wonder if things had been different, if he and Kurt had tried like Tina and Mike did, if this same thing would’ve happened to them. And what would happen the next time he did see Kurt—if it would be the same, or if enough could’ve changed in the time apart to make them semi-strangers, to have drifted apart so much that it’d cut off what had been between them in such a permanent way.

But when he tried, Blaine just couldn’t picture it. He couldn’t think of any version of Kurt he wouldn’t love as much he did now. 

\--

Things slowed down in the run-up to winter break. The musical was over, and it was too soon to gear up too much for Regionals, so it freed up more time to double down on college applications and cram for mid-terms. Tina and Artie made better—or, well, more effective and far less distracting—study partners than Kurt had. They all met twice a week in the library after school to quiz each other with flashcards and work on their college essays.

He was in the middle of testing Tina on Faulkner— seriously, he was five syllables into the question—when suddenly she let her head drop from where it was resting against her arm and onto the table with a thud, earning a glare from the librarian.

“No more,” she said. Her words were sort of muffled because she spoke them against the wooden tabletop. “We’ve been at this for three hours. My brain is fried.”

Blaine had to admit he was feeling pretty burned out too. The only one who didn’t seem to be was Artie, who hadn’t so much as paused from his rigorous note-taking. 

He dropped the flashcards and looked at Tina. “Lima Bean?”

“Yes please,” she said immediately, shoving all her books into her bag in one swoop.

Artie passed on the invite, and fifteen minutes later the two of them were seated at a table, getting a much-needed caffeine boost and brainstorming fundraising ideas for glee club. Sugar had once again offered her dad’s credit card to fund everything, but Mr. Schuester insisted they make at least one effort to raise money. It was supposed to be a group bonding, morale-raising type of thing.

“No bake sales,” Tina said. “And car washes are out, obviously.”

It hadn’t snowed yet, but it would any day now.

“How about another concert like the Night of Neglect?” he said, and when Tina made a face at him, he added, “I know last time was… well, a disaster, but it’s different now. Glee club is way more popular, and we can ban Mr. Ryerson. Seriously, that man is so awful—”

“Blaine?”

Something about that voice was familiar, but Blaine couldn’t quite figure out why—like a word stuck on the tip of his tongue, just out of reach. Until he twisted around, and felt like all of the air had been sucked out of the room.

“Terrence?” he said, disbelieving, frozen in place. He fought the urge to pinch himself.

And Terrence’s face—older now, but still so much the same, those light eyes and high cheekbones—stretched itself into a somewhat strained smile.

“So it is you,” Terrence said. “God. How long has it been?”

Blaine’s body unstuck itself and he stood from his chair, though he still was halfway convinced this was all a weirdly realistic, very vivid dream he’d wake up from at any second. He went to hug Terrence, but then stopped himself, and now he was just standing a little too close and wow this was surreal.

“I’m not even sure,” he said, trying to do the math in his head—over two years? Had it really been that long? “Wow. I just— _wow_. What are you doing in Lima?”

“I go to Lima U,” he explained. “It wasn’t my first choice, but hey, beggars-with-average-GPAs can’t be choosers, I guess.”

“No, that’s great,” Blaine said quickly, even though it was a little surprising. Terrence used to talk all the time about getting the hell out of dodge as soon as possible.

Tina was watching this entire exchange like a tennis match.

Blaine gestured to her. “Oh, this is Tina,” he explained to Terrence, and then to her, “Tina, this is Terrence DeLuca. We… used to go to school together.”

Tina shot him a puzzled look. “Dalton?”

Terrence snickered, and Blaine wanted to shrivel up and die a little.

“No, before then,” he clarified.

Terrence looked awkward for a moment, and then he cleared his throat and said, “Um, I just stopped by on my way to Econ, but you know maybe… we could hang out sometime. Catch up?”

“I’d like that,” Blaine said, though he wasn’t totally sure what he thought of the idea. Nothing against Terrence, it was just… it was weird seeing him like this. It reminded him of what felt like a completely different life, and not one he looked back on with the fondest of memories either.

Terrence dug out a pen and wrote his number on the back of Blaine’s hand. And suddenly he was fourteen again, standing in a school hallway, exchanging numbers with the cute boy from choir, and—

“Guess I’ll see you around, then,” Terrence said, and Blaine was jolted back to the present, looking into eyes that were older than the ones he remembered.

He couldn’t even think of how to respond to that before Terrence was leaving, the door swinging shut behind him.

\--

On the drive home, Tina said, “He’s cute.”

“Not happening.”

“I’m just making an observation,” she said innocently. “I didn’t say anything had to happen.”

“I’m not ready for that,” he told her. He couldn’t even look at anyone with Kurt still so much in his head. Not that there was anyone to look at. “Anyway, it’s not like he was asking me out on a date.”

Tina made a disbelieving noise in her throat. “I don’t know, it kind of looked that way to me,” she said.

“Trust me, it’s not like that with him. It’s… complicated,” he said, haltingly. “There’s sort of a history.”

She stared at him. “I thought Kurt was your first boyfriend?”

“He is! Um— was,” he corrected himself, before she could. “Terrence and I weren’t—like that.”

“So you two never…”

“No, we didn’t date or… anything. He never thought of me that way.”

“Like how you thought of him?” she prodded, and she was smiling knowingly, and— okay, she was right about that.

“Yes, all right, I had a little crush,” he said. “Of course I did. I was fourteen and he was the only other gay person I’d ever met.”

It was difficult to explain to someone—someone without same-sex leanings— what that had felt like. You could read all the books and watch all the movies and tv shows you wanted, but actually meeting someone who was the same—that was something else. He had to cringe a little, thinking back on how fast and hard he’d clung to Terrence. He’d probably embarrassed himself, but at the time he’d just been too relieved not to have to go it alone. To have someone else like him. Somebody who could understand in ways no one else could.

“And he’s cute,” Tina added.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Like I said, it’s—too much happened. It’s hard to explain.”

It was quiet for a minute, and then Tina said, “So he was from your old school. Before you transferred to Dalton.”

There was a question there she wasn’t asking.

“Yeah.” He turned his head to look out the window, hoping she wouldn’t say anything else.

Blaine wasn’t sure how to explain that once you’ve seen someone get the shit kicked out of them just for daring to show up at a stupid Sadie Hawkins dance with you and afterward have to throw out your favorite dress shirt because it’s stained with so much blood you’re not even sure belongs to you or not, it’s pretty much impossible for anything to go all the way back to normal. Normal stops existing.

\--

They did end up meeting for coffee on the weekend.

“Can I ask you something?” Terrence said, once they’d sat down at a table by the window. Not the same table Blaine thought of as Kurt’s and his—he’d made sure of that.

The question made him a little nervous. Was he ready to be asked things?

But he knew the right thing to say. “Sure.”

“That girl you were with the other day… is she your… girlfriend?”

Blaine couldn’t help but laugh. That was not what he’d expected.

“We’re just good friends,” he said. Best friends, these days. “Trust me, she knows I’m not playing for her team.”

“Good,” Terrence said, sounding relieved. “I was worried you had some kind of bearding situation on your hands.” He wrapped his palms around his cup of coffee and looked at Blaine. “So I take it you’re not at the fancy private school anymore. What’s up with that? Could your parents not afford it or…?”

“No, nothing like that. I’m sure they’re glad not to be paying tuition, but it wasn’t their idea. My boyfriend went to McKinley, so… I decided to transfer there, last year.”

It sounded kind of stupid said out loud. And it had been a rather impulsive decision, back at the time, but even now Blaine didn’t regret it. It’d always been worth it.

“Boyfriend, huh?” Terrence’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s some commitment.” 

“We broke up this summer,” he confessed. “He’s in New York for school, so…” He shrugged, glanced askance, and when he looked back Terrence was still staring at him, but he didn’t look judgmental or anything, so. So that was nice.

“And you’re still there,” Terrence pointed out.

“Yeah, but it’s fine,” he said. “I have a lot of friends, and we won the show choir national championship last year, so it’s good. It worked out for the best.”

Any chance of returning to Dalton had evaporated after what went down in the parking garage with Sebastian and that damn rock salt slushie last year. That had been a fun lesson in learning who his true friends were. The only one he still talked to these days was Wes; he couldn’t look any of the others in the eye, not without thinking of what had happened, how easily they’d walked away. There was no going back from that.

“I have to say, I’m surprised you’re in Lima,” he said, just to change the subject. “Whenever I thought about it, I assumed you were… I don’t know, off in California or something.”

Terrence smiled. “You’ve thought about it?”

A sort of hot feeling rose in his chest, and Blaine had to look away, flustered, squirming a little in his seat. “Well… yeah, of course. I mean, I wondered.” He met Terrence’s gaze again, which hadn’t wavered from his. “Did you? About me?”

“All the time,” Terrence said, and that caught Blaine’s breath in surprise.

He wanted to—he wasn’t sure. Apologize, maybe, for doing what he’d done those years ago. Taking off and not looking back. He hadn’t tried to stay in touch. Hadn’t even wanted to, because it was too painful. But maybe that would’ve been better. For both of them. Instead of trying to act like nothing had ever happened, burying it somewhere he’d never have to face it again, except life never quite worked that way, did it?

Instead he sipped his coffee and didn’t say anything. Because some things hadn’t changed, and he was still a coward, and even after all this time he could hardly talk about it.

Maybe he wasn’t the only one, because Terrence didn’t say anything about it either. Just finished his coffee and poured a tip on to the table, suggested they do it again some time. 

When he watched Terrence walk out, Blaine wondered if he’d ever see him again.

\--

On the last day of school before winter break, he holed up in the choir room. Everyone else had taken off the second the last bell rang, ready for two weeks of no classes and holidays and sleeping in, but Blaine felt like he’d rather be alone here than alone in his house, so he stayed.

He sat at the piano, running through a few songs on his own. And thinking about Kurt.

It wasn’t depression, really. Depression was thinking about everything he wasn’t going to have: what it would’ve been like if their lives had remained intertwined. The what-ifs, missed opportunities. No, today he was thinking about the past. The first year they’d met, singing that duet in the Dalton common room, back when everything between them was so completely uncomplicated. And last year’s Christmas; the silly gum wrapper ring, the dancing, the first time it snowed and he’d stood in the Hummel-Hudson front yard laughing while Kurt spun in circles and caught the flakes on his tongue. Sitting inside with hot cocoa, sharing a blanket, warming each other up, first with their arms around each other and then with kisses, and how he’d felt so happy and warm despite the freezing weather.

So it wasn’t depression—it was just nostalgia, which was totally different. Really.

When he cut off the last note of Christmas Baby Please Come Home, someone said, “If that’s not my cue, I don’t know what is.”

Except that it wasn’t just someone, it was Kurt, and Blaine almost fell to the floor in shock.

He scrambled off the bench before stopping himself short, because—he didn’t know why, but he felt rooted to the spot, and he couldn’t stop staring.

“Kurt?” he said.

It was, it was him. He looked the same—his hair was a little different, a little longer, styled a little differently—and Blaine didn’t recognize the coat he was wearing, it had to be new—but it was him, truly, and he didn’t even want to blink in case he’d somehow nodded off at the piano and this was some dream or something—

Kurt smiled and took a single step forward, and that was all Blaine needed; he launched himself into Kurt’s arms, wound both arms tight around his back and buried his face in Kurt’s neck. Kurt was holding on just as tightly, one arm over his shoulders and the other brought up so he could cup the back of Blaine’s head with his open palm. It had been so long, but they still fit together easily, two puzzle pieces snapping into place. The most natural thing in the world. Blaine was sort of amazed by it.

When they finally pulled away and looked at each other, they were both laughing.

He was so happy after being so ridiculously worried, to see that there was still this thing between them, something fierce and loving and only a little bit painful. It was an intoxicating feeling, relief following anxiety.

“What—how—” Blaine stopped, made himself breathe, too overcome to be embarrassed by the tears that slid into his throat. “What are you doing here?”

“I flew in this morning,” Kurt explained in a rush. His eyes were darting all over Blaine’s face. “I was driving by and just thought I’d drop in for an impromptu visit. I would’ve called before I came, but.” He shrugged one shoulder. “What can I say? The element of surprise greatly improves a dramatic entrance.”

“Well, you definitely surprised me,” Blaine said. He kept his hand curled around Kurt’s shoulder, like he needed to prove to himself that Kurt was actually here, in the flesh, standing in front of him. “God, Kurt, it is so good to see you. I can’t believe you’re here.”

“I can’t believe I’m here either. Who would’ve thought I’d ever voluntarily set foot in this school again?” Kurt quipped. He surveyed the choir room, and a note of wistfulness crept into his tone. “Then again, glee club was always the only redeeming, worthwhile thing about this place.”

He moved to the piano bench, and Blaine sat down next to him, watching as Kurt touched the ivory keys like he’d forgotten how they felt. Then he lifted his eyes to meet Blaine’s gaze, and he was looking at Blaine the same way he used to, and Blaine could feel the body heat from where their thighs were pressed together.

“How have you been?” Blaine asked. They had to start somewhere, and that seemed as good a place as any.

Kurt’s eyes lit up, and he sounded a little breathless when he said, “New York is so amazing, Blaine. I’m living there forever. There’s nowhere else in the world for me, I’m telling you.”

“I’m really—I’m so happy for you,” he said, honestly.

Kurt reached over and put a hand on top of Blaine’s.

“I should’ve called,” he said. “I thought about it a million times, but I wasn’t—there was so much, and—”

“It’s okay,” Blaine said gently. “You don’t have to explain.”

Just knowing Kurt had thought about it—that was enough.

\--

Kurt already had plans with Mercedes that night, so they agreed to meet at the mall the next morning, get some Christmas shopping done and try to catch up on the past few months.

He met up with Kurt in the food court, and they got lemonades and split a Cinnabon, sitting on the edge of the tiled fountain.

“How’s Rachel?” Blaine asked, because there was this uncertainty in him, between them, and he didn’t know what to do with it.

“Driving herself crazy between classes and her waitressing job,” Kurt said. “But at least she’s so busy it doesn’t leave time to drive _me_ crazy, so, I can’t complain.” He wiped his thumb off on a napkin. “And then there’s Santana—”

“Santana?”

Kurt looked at him, surprised. “Wait, you didn’t hear? Santana’s in New York, too.”

“No, no one told me,” Blaine said, a little embarrassed for apparently being so out of the loop. How had Tina and Artie never mentioned it? Maybe they didn’t know, either.

“Yeah, she’s living in the East Village. Not too far from our apartment, actually,” Kurt said. “April Rhodes—you remember me telling you about her, right? She owns this jazz club… it’s sort of like a speakeasy. Anyway, she hired Santana as a singer, so I guess that’s what she’s doing now. I didn’t even know until I literally ran into her at the dry cleaner’s—I was running late to this workshop thing, that’s a different story—and she told me. I don’t really see her much, though. We’re all so busy it’s hard to make time… Mike and I keep making plans and canceling on each other. I haven’t gotten together with him once. I’ve heard the Ailey schedule is even more insane than NYADA’s, though, so I’m hoping it settles down a little after this semester.”

“It sounds like they’re keeping you busy,” he said. “But you’re having some fun too, right?”

“Sure,” Kurt said with a shrug. “It’s a lot of work, but it’s fun too.”

“No, I mean…” Okay, maybe it was a little too early to broach the subject, but he couldn’t help himself— “Socially. Has there been… anyone?”

Kurt paused. Not too long, but long enough.

“There have been… a few,” he said, after a lengthy silence. He wasn’t looking Blaine in the eye anymore.

“Right,” Blaine said softly, setting his cup down, looking into the fountain at the pennies gathered at the bottom.

“I barely have time to breathe, never mind a social life, so it’s not anything, really,” Kurt said a little too quickly. His shoulders slumped a little. “I don’t want to complain. I know how lucky I am just to have gotten in in the first place, and there are so many people who would kill to be in my position—”

“Kurt,” he said, “it’s me. You can talk about it. I’m not going to judge you.”

“I know you won’t,” Kurt said, rolling his eyes at himself, “but I’ll judge myself enough for the both of us.”

“Is everything—okay?”

“Yes. Well, mostly.” He rubbed at his eyes for a moment, and when he looked back at Blaine, his face was tired. “It’s just so much work, and I don’t even have a job on top of it like Rachel does. And sometimes I look around and I think—what am I even doing there? Everyone is so, so talented. It’s so different from Lima. I’m not the big fish in the small pond anymore. I’m more like… the very tiny guppy in a giant ocean full of superior countertenors.”

“You’re there because they saw something in you,” Blaine reminded him. 

“I try to tell myself that,” Kurt said softly, “but it can be hard to remember. There’s so much I love about the city, but sometimes I feel so… small.” He ducked his head down, smoothed out a wrinkle on his knee with one hand. “I can’t tell you how many times I listened to the message you left me.”

Blaine felt his throat close up. “Kurt…”

Kurt shook his head like he was shaking the whole thing off. “Enough about me already. I want to know how you’ve been doing.”

So Blaine told him—about Artie and Sugar, Tina and Mike, his college applications, the musical, the surprising newfound popularity of New Directions and its latest additions.

“There’s this one girl, Ginger,” he said. “She’s sort of socially awkward but seriously, she can sing her face off. She’s a total Broadway baby. And I’m pretty sure she’s in love with the quarterback and wants him to be her leading man.” He had to grin. “Sound familiar?”

Kurt laughed and lifted his lemonade cup in a salute.

“So the circle of life continues.”

\--

They went to the department store so Blaine could pick out a gift for his dad.

“A tie?” Kurt said. “That’s all you’re getting him?”

Blaine paused from browsing the rack and looked over his shoulder. “What’s wrong with a tie?”

“Nothing. It’s just... not very personal, is it?”

“My father and I don't really ‘do’ personal,” Blaine said wryly. “I get him a tie. He gets me books I’ll never read and some gift cards. Why, what did you get your dad?”

“A Caddyshack poster signed by Chevy Chase with a certificate of authenticity,” Kurt said. “I saw it in a poster shop in Chelsea a month ago and had to get it. It’s his favorite movie. I just need to buy a frame.”

“Wow, he’ll love that,” Blaine said. He could already imagine the look on Mr. Hummel’s face when he ripped open his present Christmas morning. Of course, Kurt could give him a ball of lint and Mr. Hummel would probably adore it. As long as it was from Kurt.

“Okay, so we have the tie,” Kurt said once Blaine had picked one out (dark red silk, no pattern), “so that leaves us the frame for my dad, wrapping paper, gift bags and bows, and... what about your mom?”

“She wants a Kitchenaid food processor.”

Kurt snorted. “Who doesn’t? Have you seen the reviews on Amazon? It’s been heralded as the Sistine Chapel of processors by Bon Apetit Monthly.”

“Would you believe my subscription expired six months ago?” He grinned and put a hand on Kurt’s shoulder. “I’m glad you're here. You can make sure I pick out the right model.”

\--

Kurt wanted him to get the red.

“Look at it,” he said, grabbing the display processor. “That is sexy.”

“It is, but it’s for my mom, not me. Or you,” he added, after noticing the way Kurt was all but salivating over the display, eyes practically glazed over with lust.

“But you’ll let me come over and try it out, right?” he asked. “Imagine the purees... the effortless chopping and mixing...”

“Yes, you can try it out,” he said. He grabbed one of the boxes from the shelf. “But I'm getting this one. Standard black is more to my mother's tastes than fire engine red.”

“Good choice,” Kurt said with a nod. “Not as bold as I would personally prefer, but classic. Refined.”

After they’d paid and went to part ways in the parking lot, there was an uncomfortable moment where they sort of just hovered around each other. There was a new awkwardness there, the realization that friendship couldn’t always be fully recovered, not after you’d known the curve of someone’s shoulder or how well your hands fit against the line of their hip. Not after that.

Finally Blaine reached out and put his arms around Kurt, in a brief, tentative hug. It wasn’t the same as that first one had been, but it was still—it was more than what he’d had, in so long.

When he pulled away, Blaine said, “We’ll have to—” at the same time as Kurt said, “Maybe we can—”, speaking over each other. They both stopped and laughed, and for a moment that awkwardness melted away again.

“I want to see you again,” Blaine said, boldly, because he wanted it enough not to care about sounding needy or desperate.

Kurt nodded. “Yes. Yes, I’d like that too.”

\--

The Andersons weren’t big on family traditions. Holidays were treated as somewhat perfunctory: the tree went up a week before Christmas and came down the day after; they’d go to church services on Christmas eve, the only time they did that all year round aside from Easter, and come home and exchange presents then. Christmas morning, everyone was pretty much left to their own devices.

Cooper wasn’t even bothering to come home this year. Apparently his girlfriend’s parents owned some time share in Aspen and he’d decided to stay there instead. Blaine couldn’t blame him for that one.

The one holdover over the years was his dad’s company Christmas dinner—it was the only family commitment Blaine never had a chance at weaseling his way out of. He viewed it as a necessary evil. If he did this one thing, it meant his parents would generally stay out of his way the rest of the time. But it was still an event as evil as it was necessary.

Okay, evil was an overstatement. It was just… tedious. Uncomfortable. Somewhat excruciating.

This year’s catered dinner took place at the boss’s house, the way they all did. And Blaine did what he always did, what was always expected from him: shook the boss’s hand, fielded a few polite questions about school, and sequestered himself off by the spread of hors d’oeuvres, assembling a plate to pick off of until the cocktail hour came to an end.

He was nibbling on a canapé when a girl sidled up to him.

“Fun party, huh?” she said, picking up a crab cake by the toothpick and twirling it between her fingers.

“Oh yeah,” he said. He kept his voice neutral, because he couldn’t tell whether she was being sarcastic or not.

“You can laugh, it was a joke,” she said, bumping him with her shoulder. She stayed there, pretty much pressed up against him. “I’m Kara, by the way.”

Blaine wiped a hand discreetly on his pant leg, stuck it out formally. “Blaine Anderson.”

She stared at it for a minute before taking it in hers. “I’ve met your dad.”

“Oh?” he said, for lack of anything else. She was staring at him sort of intensely, but he couldn’t read her expression.

“He sent me over here,” she explained. “Thought you could use some age-appropriate company.”

Blaine glanced across the room—his father was still talking to the boss, his mother on his arm, drinking from a wine glass. At that moment, he cut his eyes sideways and looked at Blaine.

“He thought we might have something in common,” Kara said. Her hand was on his arm now, lingering. “I’m in my high school choir too.”

“I don’t do regular choir,” he said, more biting than the girl deserved, but his brain was putting two and two together and he didn’t like where this was going. “It’s show choir.”

She laughed lightly. “That’s kind of gay, isn’t it?”

Oh yes. This was exactly what he thought.

“Yeah, it works out well, because so am I,” he said, fighting to keep his voice level. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

He hustled off to the bathroom, shut the door and leaned back against it for a long moment, eyes closed, feeling mad and hot all over. God, the nerve of his dad, he couldn’t believe it—

No, wait, except actually he could. He really wasn’t surprised at all.

He sat down on the closed toilet lid and stared at the fancy monogrammed terry towels hanging in front of him, counting his breaths until he felt a little less like punching the wall, and then he pulled out his phone and texted Kurt.

_i’m in hell_

It didn’t take long for an answer.

_Stuck in an elevator with Rush Limbaugh?_

That made him grin a little. _worse. family “bonding”. my dad’s work thing._

_That’s your definition of hell? There are children starving in Africa, Blaine. Or so Sally Struthers tells me._

_thanks, mom._

_Just offering some perspective!!_

_do you think can someone actually die of boredom? there is nothing to do and no one to talk to._

_Poor Blaine. Doesn't know what to do with himself when he’s not in the public eye, surrounded by admirers, getting constant attention..._

_oh i’m getting some attention. there’s a girl here hitting on me. pretty sure it was a setup courtesy of dear old dad. i locked myself in the bathroom just to get away._

_Ouch. In that case, my sympathies. I wish I could rescue you from such horror._

_i wish you would._

A minute passed before Blaine’s phone buzzed again.

_Give me the address._

\--

This was crazy. This was absolutely crazy. But the idea of walking back out into that dining room and having to make small talk with the pushy girl making eyes at him for the next few hours while his father probably had his fingers crossed that it would all lead to something was enough to make him go through with it.

The bathroom window jimmied open pretty easily, and for once his smaller stature worked in his favor because he could squeeze through it one limb at a time, until he was dangling all the way out and dropping the short distance into an ungraceful heap on the snow-covered bushes. He had to stand on his tip toes, but he could even budge the window back shut, and then he was free.

He scurried around the house—ducking out of sight under all the windows he passed—and to the driveway, where Finn’s pickup idled. As he dashed toward it, he noticed the passenger window rolled down, Kurt leaned out of it.

Kurt swung open the door and called out, “Your chariot awaits,” once Blaine was within hearing distance.

Blaine hopped in as Kurt squeezed into the middle, making room. Finn was behind the wheel.

“Hey man,” Finn greeted cheerfully. “Long time, no see.”

“Pleasantries can wait until the reconnaissance mission is over, Finn,” Kurt said to him. 

“Reconna-what now?” Finn said.

Kurt rolled his eyes. “Just drive.”

While Finn backed out of the driveway and onto the road, Kurt fiddled with the heaters and slipped off his scarf, tucking it around Blaine’s neck. It wasn’t until then that Blaine realized he was shivering. His coat was still inside the house, heaped on someone’s bed with all the rest. Oh well, his parents would pick it up for him.

They also would be really unhappy when they realized he’d ditched the party. But it would probably be at least an hour until that happened, and he could deal with it then.

“Thank you,” he said, holding his numbed hands in front of the vents to warm them.

“Don’t mention it,” Finn said. “We were out around here anyway.”

“Finn saved all his Christmas shopping until the last minute,” Kurt explained. “You’d think I would’ve rubbed off on him enough for him to learn how to take advantage of Black Friday sales, but no.”

“I thought about it, but I was still in, like, a turkey coma,” Finn said. “Not all of us treat shopping like the Olympics, okay.” 

Blaine grinned, leaning back and watching the two brothers rib each other playfully, relaxing for the first time all day.

At the house, Finn dropped them off, apparently headed out to hang with Puck for the night. That left the two of them standing in the driveway, not sure where to go from there.

“I can drive you home if you like,” Kurt finally offered.

The lights were on inside, and that meant Mr. Hummel and Carole were probably home. Maybe Kurt didn’t want to have him there, or maybe he just wanted some time with his family alone—which was more than fair. He’d done more than enough for one night.

Blaine nodded. “That would probably be… best.”

The drive to Blaine’s was quiet, and filled with a weird kind of tension Blaine wasn’t sure how to break. 

When Kurt eased to a stop in the drive, Blaine unbuckled his seat belt and said, “Well, thank you for being my knight in shining armor tonight.”

Kurt smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Anytime.”

“Right.” Blaine slid the scarf off from his neck and held it out to Kurt. “You probably want this back.”

“No,” Kurt said, looking at it and then at Blaine, “keep it. I owe you one, remember?”

Something sharp twisted in Blaine’s chest, but he just closed his mouth and nodded, wrapping the scarf back around himself.

He opened the door and climbed out. “Goodnight, Kurt.”

“Goodnight,” Kurt said.

He made it less than halfway to the front door before he heard the sound of Kurt getting out of the car, the door slamming shut.

“Wait!”

When he turned, Kurt was standing in front of the car, flooded in the yellow headlights, tense and breathless.

“I lied,” he blurted out, and Blaine froze.

“What?”

“I lied,” Kurt repeated, and took one step closer. “Before. When I said there was someone—anyone—else.” He swallowed, looking at the ground. “There have been… people. But there isn’t anyone. Not anyone who means anything.”

“What do you—?” Blaine didn’t know what to say—well, he had some ideas, but he was too afraid to say any of them out loud in case he was wrong.

“I still think about you all the time,” Kurt said, and Blaine’s heart nearly stopped in his chest. “I miss you so much, Blaine. It’s been so hard, and I’ve been so lonely and miserable without you, not even _talking_ to you, and… and I don’t know if you feel the same—”

“I feel the same,” he said, and that wasn’t even the half of it, god, it felt like part of him had gone missing when Kurt went away and now it was back, and he knew he should be feeling sad that Kurt was having trouble moving on too, but instead he just felt sweet relief, to know that it wasn’t just him. That this wasn’t something he’d made up in his own head.

It was the longest moment in the history of the world and it was really of all three seconds before Kurt rushed toward him. They didn’t so much kiss as collide, crash right into each other, hard and frantic. Kurt’s hands on Blaine’s face and in his hair, pulling him in like he might disappear at any given moment. It felt so good. How could Blaine have forgotten how good this felt? No, that wasn’t it. He never forgot— he’d just made himself stop thinking about it all the damn time.

When they finally pulled apart Blaine felt lightheaded, as if he’d been holding his breath since that August morning at the airport.

In some way maybe he had.

\--

“We kissed,” he told Tina. Of course he told her. He had to—she was his best friend. And the only person he could really say anything to about it.

They were caroling the neighborhood with Mr. Schuester and the rest of New Directions. Three nights before Christmas, and a good way to solicit for some glee club donations. Ginger’s idea. That girl had a lot of ideas. Blaine was pretty sure when the time came, when he and Tina and Artie were gone, she’d be the one stepping up to lead.

Tina looked appropriately gobsmacked. “Oh my god,” she breathed. “Wow. Does that mean you two are--?”

“No,” he said. They’d talked about that, too, after the kissing. It’d only been a few months; they needed more time, both of them, to try to make a go of it alone. It was natural, especially after not talking at all, to have those feelings resurface when they saw each other. But things still hadn’t changed. Kurt’s life was still in New York, and Blaine’s wasn’t. End of story.

The one thing they’d agreed on was that the No Communication rule was a completely dumb one and needed to be abolished, immediately.

When he explained this to Tina, she just hmm-ed under her breath.

“So it was a one-time thing,” she said.

“Well…” He couldn’t hide a small grin. “We’re getting together again tomorrow. But it’s only until he goes back to New York.”

Tina looked like she was thinking a lot of things she wasn’t saying.

“What?” he prodded.

She sighed. “I just don’t want to see you hurt,” she said. “Either of you, because I know Kurt’s had it rough too—but Blaine, don’t you remember how hard it was? Can you put yourself through that again? Just switch it back off?”

“It’s not the same,” he said, a little huffily. This wasn’t the reaction he’d expected. This was supposed to be a _good_ thing.

“Okay,” she said simply, and let it drop.

\--

It wasn’t the same. He knew the rules this time, and—it wasn’t the same.

He told himself that when he met up with Kurt at the Lima Bean. Their table, it was still theirs, would always be.

They pressed their palms together across the table, and Blaine threaded his fingers through Kurt’s, and they sat there looking at each other, hand in hand. It was just like last year. Like the past few months had never happened.

“How angry was your dad?” Kurt asked, more amused than concerned.

“I got an hour long lecture on family responsibility,” he said. “But it was worth it.”

“Did you bring up the whole matchmaking stunt he tried to pull?”

He looked down into his coffee cup and stirred. “No. Why bother? He’d just deny it.”

“Blaine…” Kurt was staring at him, uncertain. “Are you sure he really did that? Let’s face it, you do have a track record of attracting the… how do I put it… _wrong demographic_. Maybe it was just an innocent mistake he had nothing to do with.”

“I know my dad, all right? I know how he is,” he shot back, a little hotly, because what the hell? Kurt was supposed to be on _his_ side here.

“I’m not saying that,” Kurt said. “But maybe if you just talked to him…”

Blaine dropped his spoon to the table. “Let’s not talk about this, okay?” And maybe he was pleading a little, but the last thing he wanted to waste precious time with Kurt on was a discussion about his father.

“Okay,” Kurt said agreeably. “So what would you rather talk about, then?”

“Global warming. The newest Katy Perry album. Mr. Schue’s ongoing love affair with the sweater vest. Or you could tell me more about New York.”

Kurt smiled. “I can do that.”

\--

Kurt’s parents were out for the day—last minute Christmas and dinner shopping to be done for themselves—and Finn was off hanging out with Sam, which left the Hummel-Hudson house empty.

Gloriously, gloriously empty.

For at least ten seconds after the front door swung closed, neither Kurt nor Blaine moved. Then Blaine was tugging Kurt to him, and what was supposed to be a nice, casual, happy-to-see-you peck somehow mutated into a hot, moaning makeout session against the living room wall.

Eventually the need for air became an issue, and they broke apart. Kurt sank bonelessly onto the couch. “Wow.”

Blaine joined him, feeling like he’d just stepped off a carnival ride. “Wow is right.”

He looked at the tree in the center of the room, standing upright but completely barren. There were boxes of ornaments underneath.

Kurt followed Blaine’s gaze and said, “We’re supposed to decorate tonight. They wanted to wait for Finn and me to be home to do it.”

“Oh,” Blaine said. “So I should probably leave soon so you guys can…”

Kurt shook his head. “No, no. I already explained to them. They want you to stay.”

“How exactly did you explain it?” Blaine asked teasingly, snaking a hand behind Kurt so it was trapped between his back and the couch and tracing patterns through Kurt’s shirt with his thumb.

“That we’re just friends,” Kurt said primly.

And then they rolled around on the coach making out some more, until Blaine slid to the floor on his knees. Kurt’s hands gripped his hair, anchoring himself there, his mouth moving but only making little wordless sounds as Blaine undid Kurt’s pants and took Kurt into his mouth.

The way “just friends” did.

\--

Kurt’s family did holiday decorations in a much more colorful, fun way than the Anderson tree, which only had a string of yellow lights and some silver and gold bulbs. The Hummel-Hudson tree was lavished with sports-themed ornaments (Finn’s and Mr. Hummel’s), family heirloom colorful bulbs and stars (mostly Carole’s, along with a few from Kurt’s mother), and old crafted ornaments from Kurt’s childhood.

Mr. Hummel had saved every terrible popsicle stick and candy cane ornament Kurt had ever made since pre-school.

Blaine picked up a crooked paper… thing on a string. “Is this supposed to be a unicorn?”

Kurt snatched it from him. “It’s a reindeer,” he said defensively. 

“Huh,” Mr. Hummel said from his place in the armchair, where he was sorting through some commemorative OSU ornaments. “I always thought it was a donkey.”

They spent a few hours untangling a basketball-sized knot of colored lights, and there was an ambitious plan to string together some popcorn, except Finn had eaten more than half the bowl by the time they got around to it. In the end, the tree was bursting with color and ornaments and light, and there was a trail of glitter all around the carpet leaking from the now-empty decoration boxes.

Mr. Hummel and Carole went to the kitchen to make some hot cocoa, and Finn pulled out his game console, handed over the controllers and put in some military shootout game Kurt destroyed both of them at, despite having next to no practice. 

“This is why I never play with you, dude,” Finn pouted after Kurt had blown his head off for the fourth straight time.

Eventually Finn paused the game to go check on the hot cocoa, and Kurt turned to Blaine.

“I just realized—I didn’t get you anything for Christmas,” he said, sheepishly.

Blaine leaned against his shoulder. “It’s okay,” he said. “I didn’t get you anything either.”

Anyway, Kurt was _here_ , and that was more than gift enough.

\--

Christmas came and went. His mother cooed over the Kitchenaid food processor; his dad looked pleased with the tie.

Blaine opened up the present from his dad—a three volume biography on Winston Churchill.

He’d never once mentioned Winston Churchill to his father in his life.

He took a picture with his cell phone and texted it to Kurt with an _i told you so._

Some things just never changed.

\--

On the day Kurt left for New York again, he didn’t see him in person. He thought it would feel too much like a repeat of that last time. Instead he called, because he could do that now.

“Have a good trip,” he said. “Say hi to Rachel for me. And Mike. Santana, too, if you run into her again.”

“I will,” Kurt promised, and then, “Blaine? I am really, really glad we’re talking again.”

“Me too,” he said.

“Because that was a really dumb idea, before.”

“The stupidest one we’ve ever had, I think.”

“And between the two of us we’ve had some pretty ill-advised ideas,” Kurt said. “Like publicly serenading a near stranger in a Gap store.”

Blaine dropped his head into one hand, his shoulders shaking with laughter. “I’m never living that one down, am I.”

“Nope,” Kurt said cheerfully. His voice turned more serious. “Honestly though, I’ve been in such a… _funk_ , lately, and seeing you… I feel so much better. About _everything_.”

“I do too,” Blaine said, and it was true: he felt lighter than he had in months. And even though Kurt was leaving again, he didn’t feel shattered by it. He felt okay, because at least there was something now, a connection, a lifeline. “You know, maybe after I graduate…”

Kurt sounded a little choked. “Blaine—”

“I’m not asking you to promise anything,” he said quickly. “And I’m not promising anything either. I just… maybe, you know?”

Kurt was quiet for a long time.

“Maybe,” he said, voice a bit thick. “It’s you and me, Blaine. I don’t think it’ll ever be off the table.”

\--

Things went, more or less, back to normal after that.

Everyone was focusing more on graduation—more specifically, college applications. Artie was applying for some film schools, with an eye on one academy in Chicago specifically. In order to do so he had to put together a portfolio, and he recruited Tina, Blaine, and Sugar to star in some music video project he could direct and submit.

The idea was some surrealist David Lynch-influenced music video set to a Radiohead song he asked Blaine to sing on.

“Every single frame has to be perfect,” Artie said. “My SAT scores—impressive as they are—aren’t going to be enough.”

Blaine’s SAT scores had been pretty high, and Tina’s too—he outscored her in critical reading, but she outscored him in math, and Artie had edged them out in both.

Sugar, surprisingly, had beaten them all.

(“I’m basically the total package,” she’d said smugly when she dropped that bombshell on them as casually as if she’d been discussing the weather. “I have a rockin’ bod, killer voice, and I’m a serious genius. I’m like the way hot child of Einstein and Madonna. You’re welcome for letting you all be friends with someone so much better than you.”

“That’s my girl,” Artie had crowed, pulling her into his lap so they could eat each other’s faces off for a few minutes.

Those two were kind of made for each other.)

For the project, Artie made Blaine wear this see-through fishnet shirt and a lot of eyeliner, which Sugar applied for him. Tina had on a blond bobbed wig and a fifties-style cocktail dress paired with combat boots. The whole setup was some story about assassins, but there were a lot of weird elements to it that Artie tried explaining the meaning of but went over Blaine’s head, like including a shot of an iguana (borrowed from one of the jazz band guys) climbing up to sit on Blaine’s shoulder, and two cracked eggs sizzling in a frying pan, and squirting an eyedropper of water mixed with red food dye on Tina’s cheeks so it looked like she was crying blood. What any of that had to do with the concept of assassins was beyond Blaine, but hey, it was Artie’s brainchild and he was the artistic mastermind here, so he didn’t question it.

He wanted Artie to get into the Chicago school, because he was talented and deserved it. He wanted Tina to get into U of M since that was her number one and she was talented and deserved it. As for himself, well, he’d just be happy to hear from any of the schools he’d applied to.

Tina heard first, almost bowled him over at his locker with a hug before lunch.

“I got an audition for Michigan!” she squealed. She was waving a piece of paper and jumping up and down with her excitement.

He took it from her and read the first sentence— _Ms. Cohen Chang, We’re pleased to inform you…_ \-- before yanking her into a tight hug.

“I knew you would,” he said. “Tina, that’s so great for you.”

Her smile tempered just a little. “Still waiting to hear from NYADA?”

“It’s still early,” he reasoned. “Last year this time Kurt and Rachel hadn’t heard yet, so I’m not worried.”

Sure enough, his own letter came the next week. He was a finalist.

The first thing he did was call Kurt.

“Hey, do you have a minute?” he asked. He could hear some outside sounds around Kurt, people talking and traffic humming.

“You caught me at a good time,” Kurt said. “I’m just making a coffee run before heading back to studio. Why, what’s going on?”

“I made it,” he said, and it was the first time he’d had the chance to say it out loud. It felt as good to say as it had to read on the letter. “I’m a NYADA finalist.”

“Oh my god!” Kurt’s voice went so loud Blaine had to draw the phone away from his ear a little. When he placed it back, Kurt was half-gasping, half-laughing. “Oh my god, Blaine, that’s wonderful! Not that I’m in the least bit surprised—”

“Of course,” he said. “Anyway, I’m just a finalist, it’s not like I’ve been accepted or anything.”

“Blaine, do not _dare_ try to play this down. This is huge. Tell me you’re planning to celebrate.”

“I haven’t really thought that far ahead—”

“Well, do it. Go find Tina and do something. You deserve it. And then prepare to buckle down on your audition, and let me know if you need any help with it, okay? Crap, I’m next in line and the barista is giving me the evil eye, she’s going to murder me if I don’t hang up in the next millisecond— call me later—!”

Blaine was still laughing when Kurt’s end of the line went dead.

\--

He and Tina celebrated with a dinner at Breadstix.

“I already talked to Mr. Schuester about helping me prepare an audition piece,” she told him.

Blaine nodded. “That’s smart.”

“Why don’t we do it together?” she said. “I could use your opinion, too.”

“Yeah, definitely,” he agreed. It was a good idea—the more advice people could give him, the better.

When the food came, Tina raised her coke glass and said, “To an amazing senior year.”

He clinked his glass to hers with a smile. “To an amazing senior year.”

For the first time, he thought maybe it really would be.

\--

It was funny how easily he and Kurt slipped back into talking—it was like they’d bypassed all of the awkward and were just… just the same as they’d always been.

Well, not exactly the same. No more I-love-yous, or remarking on each other’s levels of attractiveness, or anything particularly flirty. And if Kurt had any kind of love life going on, he hadn’t mentioned it. Blaine had no love life to speak of, period, so that wasn’t a problem for him.

But they texted usually at least once a day, about the most mundane things. Like the day Kurt had his first real brush with celebrity.

_Matthew Broderick is ahead of me in the bagel line_

_ask for a picture!!!!!_

_NO_

And five seconds later:

_New Yorker 101: You never ever acknowledge celebrities in public under penalty of death by crushing judgment of fellow New Yorkers_

According to Kurt, there were a lot of rules to being a New Yorker. You were supposed to treat celebrities the way you treated everyone else; if you were walking on the sidewalk, you walked fast and you never stopped, and if you had to, you got the hell out of the way unless you wanted to be bumped into or yelled at because it flagged you as a dumb tourist by the non-mentally impaired locals who actually had somewhere to be; the novelty of Ice-T filming Law & Order within eyesight wore off fast when it meant you had to walk three blocks out of your way around where the film set was zoned off; invest in a monthly MetroCard, because otherwise you’d just be wasting money.

Blaine took all of this advice and filed it away for the day he’d need it. Because there would be a day, he was sure. Just as long as the college admission boards agreed.

\--

The Cornell rejection came on the same day as the Bowling Green acceptance.

“I’m sorry about Cornell, but congratulations on Bowling Green!” Mrs. Pillsbury said when he went to meet with her. She flipped through the bulky acceptance packet they’d sent with a beaming smile.

“I don’t want to go to Bowling Green,” Blaine said. He sounded a little petulant, he could tell, and it was stupid because he’d known Cornell was a longshot anyway. Ivy League was out of his league.

“Are you sure, Blaine? They’re offering you a very generous financial package,” she said.

“I’m sure.” Maybe Bowling Green was a great school for some, but it wasn’t for him. It’d just been a backup, anyway. “I want to go to New York.”

“Okay,” she said slowly. She set down the Bowling Green packet and looked at him. “Well, you’re still waiting on Columbia and NYU, right? So you’ve got some time. I know Oberlin is in Ohio, but it’s a great school too. You might not want to rule it out.”

Columbia, he knew, was likely as much a longshot as Cornell. NYU was a tossup. He was pretty sure he’d get into Oberlin, and he had applied there for a reason—just in case during the year he changed his mind and decided he’d rather stay closer to home—but the closer he got to graduation, the more determined he felt he needed to get out of this state.

“And NYADA,” he reminded her. “There’s still NYADA, too.”

So far, his best bet.

“That’s right! Mr. Schuester told me he was working with you on your audition piece,” she said. “How is that going?”

“I’m still narrowing down a song choice, but I think we’ve come up with some good ones.”

“Good, good.” Mrs. Pillsbury nodded before shifting a little in her seat. “Blaine… I have to ask. I realize there are some great—really, really great—schools in New York, but I just want to make sure… this isn’t you pulling a Felicity Porter, is it?”

Blaine narrowed his eyes at her. “Who is Felicity Porter?”

“Oh, right, outdated cultural reference,” she mumbled, tapping a palm to her temple. “What I mean to say, you wanting to go to school in New York is about what you want, right? It isn’t about what someone else wants?”

“My parents don’t care where I go to school as long as I do and it’s not, like, community college or something, if that’s what you’re asking,” he said.

“No. What I mean is… this isn’t about following Kurt’s dream instead of yours, is it?” she said, very carefully.

He felt his face go hot. “No,” he said. “Kurt and I aren’t even… we’re just friends.”

How many times would he have to explain that?

“I know,” she said, but her whole face was really soft and sort of sad, sympathetic, like she didn’t actually believe it. “But I realize it can be very tempting—”

“Kurt and I always wanted the same things,” he cut in, before she could finish whatever she was going to say, because it’d probably make him more annoyed than he was at the moment. And he liked Mrs. Pillsbury too much to lose his temper with her. “Not because of each other, it just happened that way. I’ve always wanted this. I know I’ll be happy if I can just—get there. So. That’s what I want. It’s not about Kurt.”

The more he said it, the more he could tell it sounded like the opposite. Even though it was the truth.

He packed up his things, thanked her curtly, and headed out into the hallway, where he bumped into Coach Sylvester—literally.

She stood there glaring down at him in silence.

“Wh-what is it?” he stammered, racking his brain for some reason she might have it out for him. He couldn’t think of anything beyond, you know. His mere existence.

“Nothing, Captain Eyebrows,” she drawled in a bored-sounding tone. “I was just contemplating how many baby seals have died due to the oil spill in your hair. Has anyone alerted FEMA yet?”

She pushed past him before he could muster any kind of response beyond touching a hand to the top of his slicked back hair.

And Mrs. Pillsbury wondered why he wanted out of Ohio. Please. This school alone could give him fifty reasons.

\--

But. Okay. NYADA.

NYADA could solve so many things.

And, if he admitted it to himself, it could solve the thing with Kurt, too.

If he could get into that school—he’d be on Kurt’s track. One year behind, maybe, but a year in the same city, the same _school_ was much easier to work around than a year spent hundreds of miles apart. Especially since Kurt wasn’t going to just take off as soon as he graduated. Why would he, when the work he wanted to do was all right there?

All Blaine had to do was nail the audition. 

Mr. Schuester was more than happy to lend his coaching for him and Tina. Tina had no problem choosing her solo piece: Gimme Gimme Gimme from Thoroughly Modern Millie. It fit her well, showed what she could do. 

Blaine had a little trickier of a time figuring out what to sing. He knew his weaknesses. He wasn’t going to be able to outsing any other NYADA contenders on the big ballads. He needed something that played to his strengths—enough power to show his range without exceeding it, something he could infuse with energy, work the stage with. But most of the up-tempo numbers felt too… fluffy. He needed something with _gravitas_ , as Mr. Schuester put it.

“We’ll figure something out,” Mr. Schuester assured him after their third session ended and Blaine still hadn’t found an appropriate piece.

He asked Kurt for advice, and received a long email full of potential audition songs, none of which fit him at all.

 _If you think I can pull off anything from Les Mis, you are highly overestimating me_ , he replied.

Kurt wrote back, _Every time in my life I’ve ever thought I overestimated you, you’ve surpassed my expectations. Maybe you’re just underestimating yourself._

It was a nice sentiment, but no way in hell was Blaine singing anything from Phantom.

\-- 

Ever since the Sectionals win, the club had been clicking more. Everyone seemed to have found their place. It was starting to feel less like a random mix of people thrown together and more like an actual team. Blaine just hoped it’d be enough to win out over the one-two punch of Vocal Adrenaline and The Warblers.

“All right, guys, I think we need to figure out song distributions for Regionals,” Mr. Schuester said.

Blaine was surprised—the competition was still a few weeks out, and planning so far ahead didn’t really go with the New Directions style of winging it at the very last minute.

Tina raised her hand. “I had the solo at Sectionals, so I think it’s only fair someone else gets that spot for Regionals.”

“That’s very gracious of you, Tina,” Mr. Schuester said, looking a little astonished that she’d voluntarily given it up, which—well, only went to show he hardly knew Tina at all after four years. He looked around the rest of the room. “Okay then, any other takers?”

“Well, while I do think my group lead on Sweet Child O Mine was pretty badass, I’m willing to let someone else take a shot,” Artie said. “My vote goes to Blaine on account of seniority and experience.”

“I vote Blaine, too,” Sugar chimed in. “He’s cuter than Sebastian Smythe and judges don’t like giving trophies to ugly people.”

No one else seemed to disagree. But Blaine did notice Ginger’s face. She was trying to hide it, but he could see the disappointment there.

He stood up and faced the rest of his teammates. “Guys, I appreciate the faith you have in me, really, but I don’t think I should be singing the solo.” Everyone looked at each other in confusion, so he continued, “The Warblers will expect me to be front and center, and we won’t win if they design their set list to try and outdo me. We need to bring something really different to the table to beat them, and I think Ginger Kensington is our best bet.”

Nobody looked more taken aback by the suggestion than Ginger.

Luke raised his hand tentatively. “I think Blaine’s right,” he said. “Ginger is really great. With the right song, she’s unbeatable.”

And that was that.

On the way out of the choir room, Mr. Schuester stopped him and said, “Blaine, I’m impressed. It’s pretty big of you to give up your one shot at a solo when it’s your senior year.”

It didn’t feel like he was giving anything up. There’d been competitions before. Maybe there wouldn’t be competitions like this again, but he’d had more than his share. It was better, not just as a strategy—but it was better to give it to someone who wanted it more than he did.

He just shrugged and smiled. “Taking one for the team.”

\--

Blaine had a different solo to worry about anyway.

The audition was coming up. There’d been a few options—he could’ve gone to the regional audition in Columbus, or even the one in Chicago. But he’d been looking at the audition dates and couldn’t stop himself from going back to the one in New York. Right on NYADA’s campus.

He didn’t want to have his audition in some random Midwest college. He wanted to have it in the school he’d actually be attending.

Things happened to worked out; there’d still been no word from NYU or Columbia, and it wasn’t too difficult to ask his parents if he could schedule an east coast college visit just-so-coincidentally at the same time as the NYADA audition date. Talking Cooper into letting him bunk with him for two days proved a little more difficult, but even that worked out.

After he told Tina about his plans, she gave him a funny look and said, “You could’ve asked to stay with Kurt and Rachel. You know he would’ve said yes. Or would that be too awkward?”

“It _would_ be too awkward,” he said. “But actually… I’m thinking of it being a surprise.”

She quirked an eyebrow. “A surprise?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I owe him one after what he pulled on me over winter break. I’m going to talk to Rachel about it, see if she can be my co-conspirator.”

“That might be a bad idea,” Tina said. “Rachel is terrible at keeping secrets.”

“Oh, she’ll keep this one,” he said with a grin, then dragged her off her seat and back to her feet. “Okay, run through your piece again. That D flat went a little sharp, I know you can do better.”

\--

“I will absolutely help you make this happen,” Rachel said. “I’ll construct an elaborate lie about an ailing grandmother who has summoned the last of her strength to visit me, her darling granddaughter, to make peace before returning to her deathbed, able to finally let go after years of suffering, soothed by memories of the heartbreaking serenade she was able to hear in person one last time—”

“Um, it doesn’t need to be that elaborate,” Blaine said, shifting the phone to his other ear and looking at the airline itinerary printout on his desk. “I forwarded you my flight times. Just… make sure you can sneak me into the apartment when he’s not there? And make sure he doesn’t get suspicious. All you need to do is act… normal.”

Rachel Berry’s version of normal, anyway.

“Right!” she said. “Don’t worry, Blaine. I have it all under control.”

\--

Blaine was too nervous to do anything besides listen to his iPod during the flight, and when the plane landed at LaGuardia, he strapped his carry-on bag over one shoulder and found a non-shady looking taxi service outside his terminal. He’d written Cooper’s address down on a slip of paper and passed it over to the driver, then settled back in his seat and tried to relax.

 _the buildings are so tall_ , he texted to Tina, which was rather lame as far as observations went, but really: they were _so tall_. Taller than most of the ones he remembered from Chicago, and more of them. He couldn’t stop staring out the windows at them. And the people. He’d never seen so many people in one place.

Cooper’s building was tall, too, and Blaine wondered what the view from his apartment was like.

He paid the driver and added a hefty tip, then clambered out and to the building entrance. The doorman asked for his name, which Cooper had put on some kind of guest list, and waved him through to the elevator. 

Cooper wasn’t home; it was his girlfriend, Meredith, who answered the door. This was Blaine’s first time meeting her, though he’d seen some pictures on Facebook. She was pretty—tall, thin, stick-straight brunette hair and almond eyes.

“Cooper’s told me so much about you,” she said as she guided him inside, which Blaine was pretty sure couldn’t be true, but hey, at least she was trying to be nice.

“This is a really nice place,” he told her.

And it was—everything looked shiny and new. The blinds in the living room had been drawn open, and there was a rather stunning view of Uptown.

“Cooper won’t be home for another hour or so,” Meredith said. “I don’t, um, cook or anything, really, but we usually go out to eat or get delivery. I don’t know if you want to unpack or sleep or…?”

“It’s fine,” he said. “My friend Rachel’s meeting me here, and then we’re going to her place.”

Meredith looked relieved. “Great. Well, if you want to watch tv or anything, go right ahead.”

He sat on the overstuffed cream leather couch until Rachel texted him fifteen minutes later, alerting him that she was at the building. When he came down and she spotted him, her face brightened and she hugged him, kissed him on both cheeks like they were in Europe or something.

“It is _lovely_ to see you, Blaine,” she gushed, grabbing his wrists and squeezing them.

He couldn’t stop smiling at her. “You look fantastic, Rachel.”

She had on this beret and a dark blue dress over striped stockings, so much like something she would’ve worn in high school—Blaine wasn’t sure if she’d taken a piece of Lima with her here, or if there’d just always been some of New York in her all along.

They walked to the nearest subway stop, their steps brisk, and Blaine found himself watching her even more than he was listening to her flood of words. There was something… different, now. She was just as sprightly but at the same time more assured, comfortable in this city that had so much going on he couldn’t figure out where to look. She was capable and in command of it all.

“—and on Tuesdays I have Movement Dynamics, Dance, Sight Singing, Song Performance, and Acting, and then Thursdays it’s Broadway Styles Dance, Speech, and Performance Tech, and that’s not including the general studies courses, and my job at Birdie’s—that’s the diner—so it’s all pretty overwhelming, but I think it’ll really pay off next year—” She stopped and looked at him; they were sitting in a subway car, headed to her neighborhood. “Are you even listening?”

He winced sheepishly. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m a little…” He waved his hands around his head.

“Jetlag?”

“Well, that. But also… wow. New York. It’s so… _wow._ ”

Rachel’s face spread into an understanding grin. “Ah, yes. That feeling doesn’t go away, you know.”

\--

The St. Mark’s apartment was only on the second floor, thankfully, and it made Blaine extra grateful Kurt and Rachel hadn’t gone with that six floor Nolita walkup in the end. Between the stairs and the lingering jetlag and his nerves, he didn’t think he would’ve made it without throwing up at some point.

At the landing, Rachel grabbed his arm and stage whispered, “I told him I was picking up an extra day shift at Birdie’s. He said he’s at some study group until later tonight, so you should have time to prepare yourself before he gets here.”

Blaine wasn’t sure why she was whispering; the walls couldn’t be that thin, and Kurt wasn’t even there to hear. He was pretty sure she just appreciated the drama of it all.

“So you don’t think he suspects…?” he said, his own voice not above a whisper either. Her flair for the dramatic was kind of contagious, sometimes.

As she slid her key in the lock, she flashed him a grin over her shoulder. “Not even the slightest clue.”

She pushed the door open with her shoulder, and he followed, blinking to adjust to the light change. Blaine couldn’t see much yet, but it sounded like someone had left a television on. He started to move forward, but Rachel came to a dead halt, and he collided with her back as she gasped sharply.

“Wha--?” He looked up, and—

There was Kurt. On the couch.

Not alone.

With someone.

 _Kissing_ someone.

Horizontally. 

He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but look at them—

“Kurt!” Rachel said, voice high and tight, and that caught Kurt’s attention. His head snapped up, brow furrowed in aggravation until his eyes locked with Blaine’s, and then—

Oh god.

“Oh god,” Blaine said under his breath.

Kurt jerked backward, almost tumbled off the couch in his rush to stand. His eyes were huge. “ _Blaine?_ ” he said.

“Hi,” Blaine said weakly. “I wanted to surprise you.”

He was distantly aware he sounded like a shell-shocked moron.

Neither Kurt nor Rachel moved, apparently shocked into silence by the scene unfolding. The guy—the one who had been— well, Blaine didn’t want to think about that—was the only one who seemed unbothered. Which, of course he was. He couldn’t have any idea of what was happening.

The guy calmly rose up off the couch to stand next to Kurt, slid an arm around Kurt’s waist and smiled. “So who’s your friend?” he said to Kurt, close to his ear.

Blaine finally knew what hell looked like.

He opened his mouth, then shut it. “I—need to go,” he said in a rush, moving and shouldering past Rachel with his head down.

He thought he heard someone call his name, but he didn’t look back.

\--

His head was spinning.

He walked five blocks, totally directionless, trying to collect himself. His whole body felt numb with shock.

Eventually he ducked into a subway station, fumbled out his MetroCard and slid it through, squinted at the maps until he found the right line to get on. The one that would take him to Cooper’s apartment.

His phone rang three times—all of it was Rachel. He ignored the calls. And then she sent him a series of texts, all of which he read in her voice: _Blaine I swear I had no idea!!! – I’m so sorry!!! – Please let me know if you’re okay!!!_

He ignored those too.

The only person he could think of texting was Tina, and he almost did, except—he couldn’t. He didn’t want to talk about this unless he could say it to her face. But he didn’t think he could say any of it without having some kind of meltdown. The last thing he needed was to have that happen on a subway train full of strangers.

This was the last thing he needed, period.

\--

Dinner with Cooper and his girlfriend was one of the more painful experiences in recent memory. He would’ve suffered through ten back-to-back company dinners with his dad if it meant skipping this whole thing. All he wanted to do was curl up in bed and stay there until his flight back to Ohio, but he couldn’t do that.

And god, how was he supposed to audition tomorrow with _this_ on his mind?

Cooper and Meredith took him out to some high end restaurant where he ordered some obscenely overpriced salmon and barely touched half of it.

Even Cooper noticed something was off. “What’s the problem, did Desperate Housewives get canceled?”

Desperate Housewives had already been canceled the year before, but Blaine didn’t bother to point that out.

“It’s just jetlag,” he lied.

They bought it. Or they just didn’t care enough to push for the truth. Which was more than fine with Blaine.

\--

The next time he checked his phone, there was one missed call and a new voicemail. From Kurt.

Blaine deleted it without listening.

He couldn’t—

He just couldn’t.

\--

In the morning, he took a shower, brushed his teeth, styled his hair, and dressed all before he even so much as looked at his phone.

Tina had texted him a good luck with five smiley faces; he replied with a thank you.

Rachel had texted him again, asking if he was okay; he replied to let her know he was fine. Or at least alive, anyway.

Nothing more from Kurt. He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

There wasn’t time to dwell on it, though. Everything else could be set aside for now. He needed to get to that audition. He needed to put on the best performance he could. That was all he could make room for in his head right now. The rest could be dealt with later.

Before he walked out of the apartment, Cooper came up to him and—well, he didn’t hug Blaine, but he gave him a brotherly punch on the shoulder and said, “Knock ’em dead, okay kid?”

It surprised him into a smile—the first genuine one he’d had in a while.

“Thanks,” he said, and meant it, and then took a breath and walked through the door.

\--

When the audition and the interview were over, the only thing on Blaine’s mind was finding the nearest bed and collapsing into it. He felt exhausted, emotionally and physically wrecked. More emotionally than anything.

The last thing he wanted when he pushed through the auditorium doors was to see Kurt in the lobby, waiting.

Kurt moved forward, like he’d been expecting him all along.

“Blaine,” he said.

Blaine stared at him. “What are you doing here?”

“Rachel told me about your audition,” he admitted. “How’d it go?”

“It was fine,” he said, since he really didn’t want to dissect his mistakes and admit it was much less than fine to Kurt of all people.

That thought stung, because it used to be Kurt would be the one person he’d want to talk to about it. It used to be that Kurt would see through him and press until it all came tumbling out, and he’d say all the right things to make Blaine feel like it wasn’t the end of the world.

But Kurt didn’t do that, not this time. “That’s great,” he said, with a detectable amount of forced enthusiasm. Then he took a breath like he was steeling himself. “I think we should talk about what happened yesterday. That isn’t how I wanted things to go. I wanted to tell you first, and I’m sorry you had to find out about it that way. I never wanted to hurt you.”

Kurt sounded weirdly formal, the cadence of his speech stilted like he was reciting from a script. He was looking at Blaine so sadly, but not sad for himself, sad for _Blaine_ , and it was bullshit, and Blaine thought all sorts of mean things he wouldn’t actually let himself say.

“I really don’t want to do this here,” he said instead with measured calm, and started to leave.

“Oh, sure, just run away from the problem,” Kurt said from behind him. “That’s what you’re best at, isn’t it?”

It was a hit below the belt, the more so for being true. That was the problem, Blaine thought, with opening yourself up to someone else; Kurt knew him better than anyone, had a whole arsenal of weapons at his disposal. He knew how to hurt Blaine with the truth, and the truth always cut deeper than anything else.

When he turned back around, Kurt had that look in his eye—a little unsteady, like he knew maybe he’d crossed a line, gone too far, but he wasn’t about to admit as much or back down, now that it was out there.

Of course he wouldn’t. Kurt never backed down in a fight.

“Fine, let’s talk about it,” Blaine said. At least they weren’t pretending with formalities anymore. That made it a little easier, somehow. “So, what’s his name?”

Kurt looked thrown for a moment. “Julian,” he answered. He hesitated before adding, almost apologetically, “Mike introduced us. He’s a dancer. In the Ailey ballet program, second year.”

A ballet dancer. That meant this Julian guy was probably really lithe and flexible, and oh god, that last adjective was leading Blaine’s brain to all sorts of unfortunate visuals involving bendy limbs he would _really_ rather not have.

“Great. He sounds great,” he said, and flashed the kind of smile that hurt his face. “How long have you and him…?”

“Only a few weeks, really. It was right after… Anyway. I didn’t even tell Rachel, because—well, you know how she gets. She’d probably find some completely well-intentioned way of humiliating me in front of him given the first opportunity. So it wasn’t like I was keeping it from you _specifically¬_ —”

“Don’t worry about it,” Blaine cut in. “It’s fine.”

“It’s fine?” Kurt echoed, miffed.

“Yeah,” Blaine said, “of course it is. You’ve found someone. I’m— I’m happy for you.”

Kurt leveled him with a long look. “No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not,” Blaine agreed. “But it doesn’t matter what I think.”

He swung back around and walked toward the exit, pushing through the main doors and onto the sidewalk.

Kurt chased after him.

“Blaine,” he called, and Blaine walked faster. “Hey!”

“Just go home, Kurt,” he threw over his shoulder.

“Not until you talk to me. I want to hear what you have to say.”

“Trust me, you really don’t.”

“No!” Kurt caught up enough to jump in front of him, stopping Blaine in his tracks. “No, you do _not_ get to do this. You broke up with _me_ ,” he reminded him, voice rising with each word. “God, I don’t even know why I’m acting like I have something to apologize for here. You’re the one who wanted this! You practically begged me to move on! You don’t get to be mad!”

“I know that. I know, okay? That doesn’t mean I’m happy to see you with someone else,” Blaine said. “What do you want from me, Kurt? Huh? It’s not like I can just switch off my feelings and stop…”

Something in Kurt’s face shifted. “Stop what?”

“ _Loving_ you,” he said, and it was like something cracking open in his chest. The admission seemed to have stunned Kurt into a rare speechlessness, and Blaine couldn’t stop now that his inner emotional dam had given way, so he plowed on. “I never stopped. I can’t. Honestly, I don’t even want to.”

“So what do you want?” Kurt asked quietly.

Blaine didn’t have an answer for that.

“You can’t ask me to—” Kurt started, and then stopped. “It’s too late for that.”

“I know it is.” Well, he did now.

“It’s not fair. Not to me, not to Julian. I actually like him. I spent so much time being sad over you—over us. I feel like I have to give this a chance. It took me a really long time to get to this point, and I owe that much to myself.” Kurt made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “God, it’s so _unfair_ of you to do this now—”

“I’m sorry,” Blaine said, his voice sliding back down to normal volume. “I didn’t come here for that, I really didn’t. I didn’t mean to.”

He felt drained, completely empty, and just. Tired. Really, really tired.

He tipped his head back to stare at the sky. “This isn’t working.” 

“What isn’t?”

“This. Us. Whatever we’ve been doing. I don’t… I don’t think we can be friends. I don’t think we even are, right now.”

“Of course we’re friends,” Kurt scoffed.

“No, we’re not. If we were, you would’ve told me about Julian from the start, and I would’ve been totally fine with it. But you didn’t, and I’m not. And you’re right, it’s unfair of me.”

“So what’s your solution? You want us to stop talking to each other completely?” Kurt said in a flat tone. “Because I don’t know if you recall, but we already tried that once before and agreed that it sucked. Big time.”

“Yeah, but it’s different now. You’re settled in, moving on, and I… I can actually try this time,” he said. “All this time I’ve pretended that’s what I’ve been doing, but I haven’t. I’ve just been waiting, and holding on to this idea that that’d be enough, but it’s not. I have to try. I don’t think I can do that and do— _this_ , not at the same time.”

Kurt’s eyes were watery, threatening to spill over. “You said you’d always be there when I needed you,” he said, accusingly.

“Yeah, and you said you’d never say goodbye to me,” Blaine said, “so I guess I’m not the only one who breaks promises.”

And Kurt wasn’t the only one who knew how to twist the knife, either.

Blaine started walking away, and he knew the look he’d see if he turned around, the hurt like a slap spreading across Kurt’s face.

So he didn’t.


	3. Chapter 3

His mother picked him up from the airport.

“How is Cooper?” she asked, once he’d slung his bag in the backseat and shut the door.

Blaine buckled himself in and shrugged. “Cooper is… Cooper.”

That was explanation enough.

“And New York?”

“Fine,” he said vaguely. He didn’t want to talk about it, and wasn’t that the understatement of the century.

She caught his eye in the rearview mirror.

“It’s not too late to accept Bowling Green, you know,” she said. “Or Oberlin, if you get in. New York City isn’t for everyone.”

He rolled his head to the side, slumped further down in his seat.

“I’m really tired,” he said. “Can we please talk about this later?”

Preferably never.

\--

Blaine tossed his bag on his bed, untouched, snatched his keys and drove straight to Tina’s.

She answered the door with a smile, but it dropped the second she saw his face. “Blaine?”

He couldn’t say anything, so he just stood there on her doorstep, swallowing and swallowing and swallowing.

“Oh, Blaine,” she said, and from anyone else it would feel like pity, and he would hate it. But from her it was just soft and understanding without him having to say the words, and it broke whatever part of him that’d been holding back how much he was really hurting.

Tina drew him upstairs to the privacy of her bedroom, shut the door and sat next to him on her bed. It all spilled out of him like an avalanche, and he waited for the inevitable I-told-you-so, but it never came.

She didn’t shush him, or tell him it would all be okay. She just waited him out, stroking his hair, and he was so grateful he started crying.

After a while there was nothing left to say, and his tears had dried up, and they just sat there leaning against each other.

“Is there something I can get you?” she asked, her hand on the back of his head.

He mopped his wet face off with his sleeve, feeling very twelve and very old all at the same time.

“Yeah,” he said roughly. “Do you have any ice cream?”

\--

So.

Back to square one.

No, wait. Worse than that. Back to square negative fifty, or something like that. Because now things between him and Kurt were worse than ever. Blaine didn’t know how to come back from this. Didn’t know if there was even a way.

And NYADA… he didn’t even want to think about what a mess he’d made of that.

He wasn’t the only one with problems, of course.

Vocal Adrenaline paid a not-so-friendly visit to McKinley with a throwdown killer performance of Gimme Shelter, intended to freak New Directions out. And it worked. Suddenly the harmony was gone and everyone was on edge, jumping at each other’s throats, arguing over the choreography not being good enough, the song choices not being strong enough, second-guessing Ginger’s ability to pull off a winning solo. 

Blaine knew he was slacking—someone needed to be the voice of calm, of encouragement, to temper Artie’s hardheadedness, but Mr. Schuester and Tina could only do so much. He knew he should be making more of an effort, but he had that feeling he hadn’t had since before Dalton, the one of just being too damn tired of it all to fight back.

After a week of being off his game, Tina pulled him aside, and he could see her patience was wearing thin.

“Look, Blaine, I realize you’re really hurting right now,” she said, calmly but with an edge to it, “but I need you to pull your weight around here. New Directions is falling apart.”

“I’m trying,” he said half-heartedly, even though it wasn’t really all that true.

She gave him a hard look and said, “Try harder, then,” and walked away.

\--

He hadn’t seen Sam since the summer, but there he was, standing in the Biography section of the book store on a Saturday afternoon.

“Hey!” he said when he noticed Blaine. “It’s been a while, man.”

“Yeah,” Blaine said, trying for a smile. It felt a little harder, these days. He nodded at the shelf. “Anything interesting?”

“Just some class reading,” Sam explained. “I’m doing a project on Edward R. Murrow, and I already watched the Clooney movie but uh, college isn’t like high school, really. They kinda expect you to read stuff.” He pushed the book back onto the shelf. “What are you doing here?”

Blaine held up his gift card. “Thought I’d burn off the rest of my Christmas gift.”

“Cool,” Sam said with a nod. “So, how’s McKinley? I heard you guys won Sectionals.”

“Just doing our humble part to keep the legacy alive,” Blaine said. “How’s Lima U treating you?”

Sam grinned. “Really good. I actually really like most of my classes? And the party scene’s pretty sweet, too,” he said, and then paused. “You know, there’s a kegger on campus going on tonight. I think Puck was thinking of crashing it. Something you’d be interested in?”

Blaine automatically opened his mouth to decline, but then reconsidered. The last few weeks had sucked, to put it mildly. And he didn’t like being alone, but Tina probably wasn’t in the mood to be around him right now, not that he blamed her, and he wasn’t in the mood to be around New Directions either, so maybe… maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. Maybe he could blow off some steam and get out of this miserable funk already.

Maybe this was exactly what he needed.

“Count me in.”

\--

The party was huge and loud, not just with people but with the bass-heavy music that pounded like an external heartbeat. It was already bursting at the seams with people when he arrived, so Blaine felt a little lost, clutching a red solo cup filled with cheap beer and wandering through the crowd. He had to stand on his tiptoes to see over everyone’s heads, and for probably the millionth time in his life he wished he wasn’t quite so short.

When he found Sam, he was in the middle of a game of beer pong with what looked like a bunch of frat guys, his cheeks red and eyes glistening. He let out a whoop as he spotted Blaine and bounded straight over.

“You made it, man!” he said, slinging an arm around Blaine’s neck so tight it nearly pulled him off balance. “You wanna play?”

Blaine eyed the table uncertainly. “I don’t know how.”

“It’s easy,” Sam assured him, then twisted around to look at his friends. “But be careful with this one, guys, he’s kind of a total lightweight.”

Blaine opened his mouth to protest, but—okay, that was pretty true.

He was a lightweight. And he also sucked at beer pong.

Half an hour later and he was losing, badly. Or winning, maybe, depending on how you looked at it, and since he was pleasantly drunk it didn’t feel so much like losing.

“This is the best. Game. Ever,” he announced to Sam, one hand on his shoulder to steady himself. Everything felt fuzzy and warm and bright, and he was pretty sure he’d never had as much fun playing anything in his entire life as he was having playing this. “Like seriously, wow. Who invented this? Screw Edward R. Murrow, you should do a project on that guy. They are—they deserve a medal. Or a national holiday. I will personally throw them a parade.”

Sam laughed and clapped him on the back. “All right, dude, I think maybe we should cut you off.”

He ushered Blaine away from the table, but not before Blaine could steal one last cup for the road, and led him outside to the porch.

“Get some fresh air and stay here, all right?” Sam instructed. “I’ll check in on you later.”

Blaine sat on the steps, nursing his half a cup and watching a group of girls stagger out to barf on the front lawn. He was almost finished and wondering if he should try to locate some more beer when he felt someone sit down next to him.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” the person said, and Blaine turned his head and—oh. It was Terrence.

“You go to Lima U,” he remembered.

Terrence pressed his mouth together like he was trying not to laugh. “Yes, I do. That doesn’t explain why _you’re_ here.”

“My friend Sam invited me,” he explained. “Sam Evans. He’s great. He’s like a really great guy, you know? He graduated. Everyone graduated, and it sucks now. Tina’s great, don’t get me wrong, but like—it seriously sucks.”

“Uh huh,” Terrence said, and casually slipped the cup out of Blaine’s hands, dumped the rest of its contents into the grass. “Well, you’ve only got a few more months. You can hang in there.”

“Is it great? Is college great?”

Terrence shrugged. “It’s all right. Better than high school.”

“Anything would be better than that,” Blaine said. “Our school was the worst. It was hell. I can’t—I don’t even get how it could be so bad. Do you remember how bad that was?”

“I remember,” Terrence said quietly, after a long moment.

He went to poke Terrence in the chest except he missed, and then he was just grabbing a handful of the front of his shirt, right around his collar. His knuckles brushed against Terrence’s skin, and it was really warm, even warmer than Blaine’s insides. It felt pretty good.

“You,” he said, very seriously, trying to maintain eye contact to convey his seriousness, “were the only good thing. The _only_ good thing. I swear, I don’t think I would’ve lasted as long as I did if you hadn’t been there.”

Terrence looked a little amused, but he didn’t bat Blaine’s hand away. Instead he bent in a little closer.

“Well, you were the only non-loser in that entire school,” he said to Blaine. “Had to stick together, you know?”

Blaine shook his head, because Terrence wasn’t getting it, and he needed to—Terrence had to understand what he was saying.

“No, but I mean—you were like, my only friend,” he said. “I was like head over heels for you and everything.”

“I know,” Terrence said with a grin. “You weren’t very good at hiding it.”

Blaine felt deflated, and he slowly uncurled his hand from Terrence’s shirt. “Oh.”

“You want to know a secret?” Terrence ducked his head lower, so they were eye-to-eye. “I always thought you were really cute.”

“You did?” he said, and that—it made him kind of stupidly happy.

“Mmhm. But you were such a baby gay. I couldn’t take advantage.”

“I’m not a baby gay anymore,” Blaine pointed out, and he didn’t even know why he was doing this, but Terrence smelled really good, and his skin was so warm, and when he was this drunk and this close to him, all the crap with Kurt and all of his loneliness felt really far away. Hazy.

Terrence was watching him closely, not moving as Blaine swayed a little toward him, and for a moment their mouths brushed against each other. It wasn’t even really a kiss, just—touching.

And then Terrence gently pushed him back.

“I think we probably shouldn’t,” he said.

“You know what I think?” Blaine said, because he had a lot of feelings and a lot of thoughts right now, and they were all very important for Terrence to hear. “I think—I really think—”

He threw up before he could finish the sentence.

\--

He woke up face down on Sam’s dorm room floor, a sheet covering his back and a trash can next to his head. Which he could hardly lift off the floor because it ached so badly.

Someone’s foot nudged his shoulder. “Rise and shine, fella,” a voice said, far too chipper for this early in the morning.

Or, it felt really early. It had to be, because he was exhausted. He blinked and looked up and it was really bright, bright enough to hurt his eyes, though, so. Maybe not so early.

Puck was smirking down at him. “God, you’re such a pussy. You were already out cold by the time I freaking got there. Someone needs to teach you to hold your liquor.”

Sam was standing there too, rubbing his wet hair with a towel. Another towel was wrapped around his hips, sort of dangerously low, and maybe Blaine was still kind of drunk because he found himself appreciating the view of Sam’s abs and defined pelvic bone even through the haze of his hangover from hell.

“It’s not his fault,” Sam said to Puck. “He’s too little. It’s a BMI thing. It’s like science.”

“Whatever,” Puck said, rolling his eyes. “He could at least, like, pace himself so you don’t have to drag his hobbit ass home before the party’s even started.”

Blaine pushed himself into a sitting position. Everything in his body ached, including muscles he didn’t know he even had. He still managed to muster enough concentration and energy to glare at Puck. “I’m right here, you know,” he said. He rubbed his bleary eyes and looked around the room. “So—uh—what exactly… happened?”

“You puked on the porch and passed out,” Sam told him matter-of-factly. “Your friend came and got me, so I let you sleep it off here. I would’ve let you have the bed, but uh, I was sort of afraid you were going to puke on it, and my hospitality’s got limits. Sorry.”

Friend. Terrence. Oh. Oh, god.

Thankfully Blaine hadn’t puked again, on the bed, the floor, or himself. He still smelled disgusting though.

Puck was gracious enough to give him a lift back to his car.

“Thanks,” Blaine said, and then thought to add, “Can you do me a favor? Can you… not mention this to Mr. Hummel?”

Even though there wasn’t really a point anymore, not with how things stood between him and Kurt, it still mattered to him what Mr. Hummel thought of him.

“No worries, dude,” Puck said. “Bro code or whatever. It’s cool.”

\--

When he came home, there was a thin envelope addressed to him on the kitchen counter with Columbia’s school logo in the corner.

He didn’t have to open it to know what it was.

Another rejection.

He was starting to get used to that feeling.

\--

Blaine seriously considered pretending he’d totally blacked out and had no memory of the embarrassing display of—whatever he’d done in front of Terrence, but his conscience got the best of him.

 _sorry about last night. got a little carried away,_ he texted.

Terrence texted him back twenty minutes later. _It happens. I really liked those shoes though so maybe you should make it up to me._

_anything in mind?_

_How about coffee?_

\--

At the Lima Bean, he apologized fifteen times in the span of time it took to get their coffee and find a table.

Terrence finally cut him off by reaching across the table and grabbing his wrist. “Blaine, stop. It’s fine.”

He promptly shut his mouth, looked down at where Terrence’s fingers encircled his wrist. Terrence’s thumb rubbed a little over his pulse point, soothing, and Blaine tried to remember the last time someone had touched him like that but couldn’t think of anything.

It was such a little thing, but it felt like a lot more. 

“I’m really embarrassed,” he said, dragging his gaze up to Terrence’s face. The whole incident had been replaying over and over like a toy train on a circular track going around and around in his head, and every time it just seemed worse and worse. It was any wonder Terrence could look him in the eye without laughing. “That’s not how I usually am.”

“I know it’s not,” Terrence replied, and that was the thing—he did know. He knew Blaine. Or at least, the person he’d once been.

No one else knew that version of him. Not even Kurt. It was a weird realization.

“Well,” Blaine said, clearing his throat, “I guess I’ve just been a little… messed up lately.”

“Want to talk about it?” Terrence said. His thumb was still doing that thing on the inside of Blaine’s wrist.

And actually, Blaine did want to talk about it. It felt different with Terrence, who knew him in a way nobody else did, and who didn’t know anything about Kurt, really.

“My life is really—” he started, and waited for his brain to fill in the blank. It was struggling. He took a long sip of his medium drip to try and stall for more time. “It’s just, with my boyfriend—ex-boyfriend, I mean—it’s all complicated, and—”

“Jesus,” Terrence said, “he really did a number on you, didn’t he?”

“It’s not like that.” He felt the need to defend Kurt, because really, it wasn’t like he was to blame for anything. No matter how much Blaine might be hurting, he knew that Kurt was right—he couldn’t be angry at Kurt for doing what Blaine had told him he wanted him to do all along. 

He kept thinking about that last parting shot he’d thrown Kurt’s way, and how he’d done it just because he knew it would cut deepest, and how unfair he’d been to stoop so low, and how much Kurt probably hated him now.

Terrence was still looking at him like he was waiting for Blaine to say more.

“He moved on,” Blaine explained simply. “I knew it’d happen eventually, I guess I just thought it wouldn’t be so soon.”

“You thought you were the kind of person it’d take longer to get over,” Terrence filled in, and he didn’t exactly say Blaine was an egotistical brat who thought the world revolved around him, but Blaine could hear him thinking it. In his head, Terrence was thinking it with some affection, though.

“Maybe,” Blaine said, and he had to laugh a little, because it sounded so self-important spelled out like that. “It’s my own fault. He wasn’t the one who wanted to break up. It was me. I know I’m just being… unreasonable.”

Terrence shrugged. “Feelings are feelings. Reason doesn’t really have to do with it,” he said, and then, “So why did you? Break up with him, I mean.”

Blaine opened his mouth to parrot the standard issue response, the one he’d repeated enough that by now it almost sounded like what he wanted, but instead what slipped out was, “I guess I figured I’d rather do the leaving than get left.”

If Terrence hadn’t thought he was a basket case already, he had to by now. But Terrence just looked sympathetic.

“For whatever it’s worth, I can’t imagine it being easy to get over someone like you,” he said. He took his spoon out of his coffee cup and licked it, and the gesture was sort of…suggestive. Flirty, even.

Or maybe Blaine was just imagining things.

“This is so strange, isn’t it?” he said suddenly. “I never thought I’d be sitting across from you like this.”

Terrence grinned. “And I never thought you’d be puking on my shoes,” he added.

Blaine winced and laughed at the same time, but it was okay because Terrence was laughing with him— and it was nice. It was the first time in a long time Blaine had felt this way around someone, this relaxed and open, and he clutched at the feeling.

He sighed. “I really am sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Terrence said, waving him off before he could stumble out another string of effusive apologies. “Happens to the best of us. I’m just glad you didn’t do something you’d regret too much.” He paused. “Would you have regretted it?”

Okay, that question—that look—it definitely meant something. There was no pretending otherwise.

Something swooped in Blaine’s stomach, low and warm.

“Is this a date?” he said.

Terrence drew his hand back and said, “Do you want it to be?”

“I don’t know.” It came out before he could think too hard on it, and as soon as he said the words, he knew it was the honest truth. He didn’t know what this was, or what he wanted it to be.

“Then I guess I don’t know either,” Terrence replied.

\--

Tina’s audition was in Ann Arbor. Her mom was driving her, and she asked Blaine to come along for added moral support. He agreed—of course he agreed.

When Tina was nervous, she didn’t pace; she just sat and twisted her hands in silence.

“You’ll be fine, honey,” Mrs. Cohen-Chang assured her, squeezing her shoulder. They were seated in the room adjacent to the stage with the rest of the potential students, who were all standing around, stretching limbs and doing warm-up vocal exercises.

Tina managed a smile. “Thanks, Mom,” she said, and then looked at Blaine. “Any last minute advice?”

“You don’t need advice from me,” he said. “You’ll do great.”

And she would—he was sure of it. She’d practiced her piece down to perfection.

They called her name, and her mother gave her one quick last hug, and Blaine wished her luck, watching as she straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath, and passed through the doors to the stage.

It was funny because he never really got nervous before he performed, but he was nervous for her. He couldn’t sit still. He went to the closed door, pressed his ear against it, but he couldn’t hear much of anything. He sat back down. He checked his phone. He stood up again.

“You’re going to give me hives,” Mrs. Cohen-Chang said to him, but she had an amused smile on her face.

“Sorry,” he said, sitting down next to her.

Finally Tina came back out, and Blaine searched her face, hoping for a good sign. As she walked over to them, she broke into a wide, shaky smile.

“I don’t want to jinx it or anything, but I think it went really well,” she said, a little breathless.

Blaine scooped her up in a hug. “I knew it would.”

“Thanks for being here,” she said. Her arms tightened around his back.

She said it like it’d even been a question, and it made his heart twist a little. Things had been kind of weird lately between them ever since he’d returned from that disastrous New York visit. Things had just been weird, period, like he was stuck in this perpetual dark mood, and he hated it, because that wasn’t him. He wasn’t the kind of person to let things get to him like that, to not be able to pick himself up and keep trucking on—but this thing with Kurt had messed with his head. He couldn’t just shake it off.

None of it was Tina’s fault; really, she’d been the only reason he was keeping it together as well as he was. 

“Of course.” He let go, gave her his best grin. “I wouldn’t have missed it.”

\--

U of M’s campus was pretty, and it looked more like a typical college campus than NYADA, with sprawling green lawns and trees and sidewalks and people with overstuffed backpacks biking and big, elegant buildings.

Blaine bumped his shoulder against Tina’s as they passed a group of guys tossing a Frisbee. “What do you think?” he asked her. “Do you like it?”

“I love it,” she confessed. “Have you ever been somewhere and just thought you could see your whole life there? Like you just knew you belonged?” 

It was beyond cheesy, but his first thought was of Kurt.

But he’d also felt that way in New York. Okay, his memories of that trip weren’t exactly the greatest, but the city itself—it was sort of love at first sight.

Of course, that dream was slipping through his fingers. NYADA and NYU were his only possibilities now, and neither one seemed likely. He didn’t want to let go of that dream, but he wasn’t sure he had the choice, now. Everything he’d wanted for himself was slipping further and further away. He had no idea what he was going to do, about anything.

The old plans weren’t working anymore. Maybe it was time to start trying something new. 

On the drive back to Ohio, he slipped his phone out while Tina and her mom bickered over the radio and texted Terrence.

_Are you busy tonight?_

\--

The thing with him and Terrence wasn’t dating, exactly. It was undefined, and Blaine wasn’t sure how to feel about that. He liked labels. He liked relationships, and what came from being in them. He wasn’t someone who could separate the emotional from the physical.

It didn’t matter, though, because they weren’t dating. They hadn’t even held hands or kissed once—there were a few times Blaine was pretty sure Terrence had thought about it, but every time it seemed like it might happen, Blaine found himself conveniently stepping backward out of kissing distance and babbling about something stupid.

Towards the end of their third-not-a-date-but-not- _not_ -a-date, Blaine literally smacked his head against the car window when all Terrence was really doing was leaning over to dig around in the glove compartment, then tried to cover it up by rambling about Mr. Schuester’s latest boys-versus-girls gender-flipped mash-up glee assignment. He, Artie, and Luke were thinking of crossing over Lady Gaga with The Bangles, which might sound weird but Artie had come up with a really cool arrangement mixing up Alejandro with Our Lips Are Sealed, and what did Terrence think?

Thankfully Terrence didn’t call him out on being such a hopeless idiot. He just looked faintly amused and said, “You really never shut up about that glee club.” 

Blaine surreptitiously rubbed the side of his head where it’d banged against the window, smoothing down his hair. “Well, yeah. It’s important to me,” he said. “Does it annoy you?”

“No, I think it’s cute,” Terrence told him, smiling. “It reminds me of all the theater stuff I did back in high school.”

“Do you still do any of that?”

Terrence just looked at him. “I go to Lima U. What do you think?”

“Yeah,” Blaine said, “but there’s got to be stuff you could do on campus, right? Or even community theater or something—”

“It’d just be a waste of time. I’m not interested.”

Blaine frowned. “But you loved it.”

“I guess the things that mattered back then don’t really matter so much anymore,” Terrence said with a one-shouldered shrug. He was staring straight out over the steering wheel now, his jaw set in a tight line. “That’s life for you.”

He didn’t know how Terrence could be so dismissive about it all. Was that really what growing older meant? Would a time come when Blaine would look back at high school, and glee club and his friends and even Kurt would seem like silly childish memories? He couldn’t imagine it. Didn’t really want to.

It was different for him. It had to be. It had to matter.

\--

On the same day Blaine got his Oberlin acceptance, Artie found out he’d made it into the Chicago film school.

Sugar planned a big congratulatory 90’s-themed party for him, hosted at her house, and even designed glittery pink official invites. When Blaine told Terrence about it, Terrence said, “Yeah, no offense, but I don’t really want to hang around a bunch of high schoolers,” which was the same thing he said every time Blaine suggested introducing him to any of his friends.

That was okay, he supposed. It wasn’t like Terrence owed him anything. They weren’t boyfriends.

So Blaine got a ride with Tina to the party instead—Sugar had gone all out with the theme; an old school Nintendo system was hooked up to a big flatscreen tv, Squeezit and Crystal Pepsi were provided for drinks (when asked how she’d procured three cases of a beverage that’d been discontinued for about twenty years, Sugar said, “My dad knows a guy… who is definitely not in the mafia”), and there was a bowl of fake glue-on goatees for all the guys.

Artie was smoothing his on when Blaine and Tina arrived. “Hey guys!” he greeted cheerfully. “Glad you could make it.”

“We’re happy to be here,” Tina said to him. She glanced around the room. “Wow, Sugar really knows how to throw a party.”

“I think she hired a crew to decorate, but yeah, I’m a lucky man,” Artie said. “These are the perks of having a Sugar mama.”

Blaine wasn’t about to touch that one. “Congratulations on Chicago,” he said. “You must be thrilled.”

“Thanks. And hey, congrats to you on Oberlin! Have you heard anything back from NYADA?”

“Not yet,” he said, and could feel Tina looking at him sympathetically.

Artie pulled a pitying face. “Well hey, you never know. I’m sure you’re a shoe-in.”

Blaine was rescued from that particular painful conversation by Sugar swooping in and demanding they all partake in karaoke. What followed was a few hours of running through all the 90’s classics: the girls and boys battling each other with Spice Girls versus N*SYNC and Backstreet Boys, everyone taking their turns crooning their way through Oasis, Nirvana, Alanis, Hanson, MC Hammer, and it all devolved into one long dance party with occasional breaks to stuff their faces with Fruit Roll-Ups and Mars Bars.

It was pretty great, actually, and at the end of the night Blaine was still riding a sugar high (Sugar high?) when Tina pulled him aside.

“Hey,” she said, “Sugar wants me to sleep over, but I know I’m your ride, so do you want me to take you home?”

He thought about it for a moment, and then shook his head. “No, it’s okay. I can get another ride.”

\--

Fifteen minutes later, Terrence’s car pulled up in Sugar’s driveway. When Blaine climbed in the passenger side, Terrence let out a low whistle.

“This is a nice neighborhood,” he said, squinting out the windshield.

“Yeah, Sugar’s dad owns a music store,” Blaine explained. “He might also be involved in organized crime? It’s not very clear.” He dumped the pink satin goodie bag Sugar had given all the guests into Terrence’s lap. “Thanks for picking me up. You can have some swag if you like.”

“Oh my god, are these Pogs? And like twenty Beanie Babies?” Terrence marveled at the bag’s lavish contents, chuckling under his breath. He reversed out of the driveway and sifted through it with one hand, picked out a snap bracelet and flicked it onto Blaine’s wrist. “God, this girl is seriously loaded. Must have been a good party.”

“Are you sure you want to hear about it?” Blaine said teasingly. “It’s just stupid immature high school kids, right? That’s so below you.”

“Aw, don’t be like that. Relay to me every sordid detail. I promise I’ll be riveted as you recount your sexual awakening during your games of seven minutes in heaven and spin-the-bottle.”

“Spin-the-bottle? Never again,” Blaine groaned.

Terrence raised his eyebrows.

“It’s a long story,” he said hastily. No need to give Terrence more fodder to make him feel like an idiot. He looked out the window. “Why are you going so slow?”

“Just admiring the view,” Terrence said. He leaned back, braking even more, and glanced sideways at Blaine. “Hey, do you want to do something stupid with me?”

“Sure,” Blaine said, deadpan. “I love doing stupid things.”

Terrence suddenly coasted to a stop, pulled over by the curb and unstrapped his belt, bolting from the car.

“What are you—?” started Blaine, but Terrence was already half-jogging across the sidewalk, up the lawn of the house they’d parked in front of. Blaine hesitated—what the hell was he doing?—but got out of the car to follow before Terrence could slip out of eyesight.

By the time he caught up, Terrence was around the back of the house, halfway over the gate to the backyard.

“What are you doing?” Blaine hissed. He looked around—whoever’s house this was was completely dark, and there didn’t seem to be anyone around to catch them, but his heart was doing double time in his chest.

“They have an in-ground pool,” he said. “I knew it, I knew they would.”

“They probably also have a security system,” Blaine said. He shifted from foot to foot. “Can we go now?”

“All the lights are off,” Terrence continued, like Blaine hadn’t said anything at all. “No cars in the driveway either. I don’t think anyone’s home.”

“What, so you want to break into their pool for a late night dip?” Blaine said. 

He was mostly kidding, except Terrence’s face told him that was exactly what he wanted to do.

Terrence smirked down from where he was straddling the gate. “C’mon, Anderson, live a little,” he said, extending a hand down to him. “Now are you in or are you out?”

It was a dare, and a challenge, and one of those do-or-die moments in life, where you stand on the divide and have to make the choice. Go big or go home.

Blaine stared at Terrence’s hand.

And took it.

\--

The water was freezing. _Freezing._

The initial plunge was like dropping into ice water. Which, not surprising—even with the unseasonably warm weather, it was still March in Ohio. After sunset. Blaine broke through the surface gasping from the shock of cold.

“You were right,” he said, swiping the water from his eyes.

Terrence flashed a grin. If he was as cold as Blaine was, he didn’t show it. It was too dark to tell if he was shivering.

“About you needing to loosen up?” he asked.

“No,” Blaine said, “about this being stupid. I can’t believe you gave me crap about a high school party. Like this is so much classier and more mature.”

That comment led to Terrence gasping his mock offense, then ducking under the water to grab Blaine by the ankle and tug him below the surface. They came up tussling, spluttering with laughter.

“You little smartass.” Terrence flicked a spray of water at him.

Blaine snatched his arm to stop him, and somehow drew him closer in the process. They were eye-to-eye, then, treading water, the moonlight gleaming off Terrence’s wet hair and bare shoulders. His skin was all really smooth and shiny, and in this light he reminded Blaine a little of Kurt. The cheekbones. It had to be the cheekbones.

“You never used to talk to me like that,” Terrence said. His voice dropped now, low and a little throaty. Intimate.

“I never used to do a lot of things,” Blaine retorted, and it was such a line, and where had that come from?

Terrence was watching him now, and the moment was dangerous and it seemed to drag out for a long time, Blaine’s heart pounding in his ears. 

“Yeah,” Terrence teased, “whatever happened to your pathological need to never put one foot wrong or piss anyone off? And now here you are, trespassing on private property, getting in touch with your inner badass… I guess you’re not such a kid anymore, huh?”

“I stopped being a kid a long time ago,” Blaine said pointedly. “You should know that better than anyone.”

For a moment there was just the cold, except where his slippery skin was touching Terrence’s, and he was close enough now to see Terrence’s face even in the darkness, the way his mouth twisted downward. But then Terrence blinked, and his whole face shifted.

“Can we not?” he said with affected flatness. “We’re kind of having a moment here, and I really don’t need to be thinking about that.”

“Except usually the more you don’t want to think about something the more you can’t think of anything else.”

Terrence snorted. “God, Blaine. When did you go and get all wise?”

What Blaine wanted to say was that he didn’t feel wise at all, and that being around Terrence made him feel fourteen all over again, so achingly desperate to be loved he was bound to screw it up. 

Instead he said, “People grow up, Terrence.”

It came out a little harsher than he meant, and Terrence was looking at him like he was seeing him for the first time.

When they kissed, all Blaine could think of was how different Terrence’s mouth was from Kurt’s—where Kurt’s had been soft and pliant, Terrence was rough and slick. It surprised him, but not quite as much as when Terrence hooked a thumb through Blaine’s belt loop, pulling him in closer.

It startled him, and he jerked back just enough for something to flicker in the corner of his eye. Someone in the house had turned on an upstairs light. So much for nobody being home, then.

Terrence saw it, too, and swiftly hoisted himself over the side of the pool, rolled right to his feet. “Shit, we gotta go. Where’s my shirt? _Shit._ ”

Blaine followed suit and pulled himself up over the edge by his elbows, his soaking jeans dripping everywhere. Terrence’s shirt was discarded next to his on a lounge chair; he grabbed it, chucked it at Terrence, and turned his own back right-side out.

As he yanked it over his head, he looked at Terrence and whisper-yelled, “What about the cover?”

They’d dragged it off as quietly as possible when they’d first snuck in. It’d been heavy, but leaving the pool uncovered like this would be a sure sign someone had been here, messing around.

Terrence shot him a have-you-lost-your-mind look. Though in Terrence’s head it was probably much more expletive-laden. “Leave it, just leave it,” he said, scrambling for his shoes, “come on—”

They went back over the fence, tumbling all over themselves, and when they landed on the other side Terrence caught Blaine’s fingers with his own. It was the first time he’d held hands with anyone since Kurt, but there was no time to linger on that fact before they were off and running.

They stayed hand-in-hand as they sprinted to the car, and all Blaine could think was that it was wrong; their hands fit together all wrong. It was like they were just grasping at anything.

\--

The next day Terrence called. That was unusual. Blaine almost always called first.

“Want to hang out?” Terrence asked. “We could get lunch.”

“I can’t,” Blaine said, a little regretfully. “I’m meeting up with Tina. We’re rehearsing a duet we’re doing for the Spring Fling.”

“Spring Fling?”

“School dance. Our principal likes using glee club since we’re free entertainment. Also, the last DJ he hired turned out only to have access to the Carpenters back catalogue… which maybe some people wouldn’t mind, but it didn’t go over too well with the high school set, so…”

“Hm,” Terrence said. “So, you have a date for this thing?”

“Planning to go stag, actually. Why, are you interested in accompanying me?”

He meant it as a joke, because no way in hell Terrence would—except maybe so, because it was suspiciously quiet on his end.

Blaine laughed, surprised. “Wait, are you saying…?”

“I haven’t said anything,” Terrence cut in. “But… maybe.”

“I thought you hated high schoolers.”

“I do. But I like _you_.”

Something in Blaine’s stomach fluttered.

“Um, it is, you know, a dance,” he felt the need to point out. “In a gym… with decorations and music and… people.”

“I am aware of how these go, Blaine,” Terrence said dryly. “It wouldn’t be my first time at the high school dance rodeo.”

Blaine hesitated. “I just… are you sure you’d want to go?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Terrence replied, testy.

Were they finally going to discuss this? This thing between them that hadn’t been breached, that neither had dared to touch on but basically defined their entire relationship. Whatever their relationship was now.

After it had happened, Blaine had been angry all the time, until he couldn’t remember what it was like to not feel that way. There were so many things he had wanted to say back then, but he’d had no one to say them to. Nobody who would understand, at least. No one who would care the way he needed someone to care. 

He used to think Terrence would be the only one he could talk to about this—really talk to. Every time he’d tried to speak about it to someone else, he never got the reaction he wanted, or needed, and after a while he’d just shut up about it altogether, because it was hard enough to share it without being dismissed or trivialized. It was like someone dumping gallons of salt in an open wound.

And then Kurt had come along, and Kurt had been the first person he didn’t feel like he had to hide anything from, who took him seriously, who he could trust with something so important.

The funny thing was that he didn’t really think about it a lot these days. There were only small reminders—like when the Britney song he’d danced with Terrence to came on the radio, or the uncomfortable twist in his gut when he found himself alone in a parking lot at night—but it wasn’t something that consumed him. Except, he realized, he’d been thinking about those days more and more ever since Terrence had reentered his life. About the person he’d been back then and everything that had happened.

He was thinking about it more and talking about it less, and that didn’t seem right.

He thought about saying something, but it didn’t sound like Terrence wanted to hear it, so he swallowed all of the things he wanted to respond with, like, _Why not? Well, how about because even if you’re ignoring it we have a history with this, because the last time we went to a dance together we both got the crap beaten out of us, because maybe you worry about that happening again._

Maybe this wasn’t the right time to bring it up. Maybe there would never be a right time.

“Okay,” he said instead, after a long enough silence to make it awkward. “If you want to go with me, let’s go.”

\--

When he told Tina about Terrence, she said, “I don’t know about this. Are you just trying to even the score with Kurt?”

“I’m not trying to even the score with Kurt,” he replied tightly. “I’m trying to _get over_ him. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to be doing?”

“There are other ways to do that.”

“Like what?”

“Well,” she said, “you could try singing about it.”

That was an idea.

The next day at the start of glee club, Blaine went to the front of the room and said, “Mr. Schuester, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to sing a song.”

Mr. Schuester looked surprised, but nodded. “Go ahead.”

“Ooh,” Sugar said, face lighting up, “is it the latest Pink single? I would sound way better on it than you, but I guess it’s okay if you want to do it.”

“Is there rapping?” Artie asked. “If so, I can handle that. No offense, Blaine, but you have about as much gangster cred as Mr. Rogers.”

“There’s no rapping,” Blaine said, a little insulted because he wasn’t _that_ bad. “It’s something by Snow Patrol, actually. I’ve just had... a lot on my mind lately, and I thought maybe I’d feel better if I sang about it—”

Artie made a motion with his hand. “Wait, wait. Hold up,” he said. His eyes narrowed. “You’re singing... for a reason?”

Blaine frowned. “Is that a problem?”

“No, it’s just usually you sing something totally random and contextually meaningless,” Artie said. “Entertaining, sure, but meaningless.”

“That’s not true. I sing about my feelings all the time,” he protested. 

“Name one time you’ve done that,” Artie said.

Blaine stood there with his mouth open for about two minutes, racking his brain, and… okay, maybe Artie had a point.

Tina, thankfully, spoke up for him. “Just let him sing his song,” she said.

So he did.

\--

It did make him feel better, sort of.

But.

The problem with singing about his feelings was that it made him think about his feelings, and the more he thought about them, the more he couldn’t lie to himself.

He couldn’t make up his mind about it. He liked Terrence, a lot, really, but the whole thing also felt off somehow. Whatever this was, it probably wasn’t a good idea. For either of them. He couldn’t just force himself to get over Kurt by getting under someone else. He couldn’t even tell if it was making him happy or not—every time they talked or spent time together, he felt twisted up inside, pleased not to be alone in the moment but somehow feeling more alone than ever when they parted ways.

One night Terrence took him to some subtitled foreign film being screened on campus, and afterward they went out for sushi and talked about it. 

And then Terrence invited Blaine back to his dorm room, and Blaine didn’t really think anything of it until they were there and the door was closed, and Terrence was kissing him, steering him to the bed.

They sat there, Terrence’s mouth latched on the space where Blaine’s neck met his shoulder. Blaine wasn’t sure what to do. His throat was kind of tight, and he swallowed and swallowed, but the feeling didn’t go away. This was supposed to be the part where he reached for Terrence’s belt buckle, or the part where he left, but he couldn’t make the choice. So he just sat there.

Terrence made the choice for him. He leaned over, covered Blaine’s mouth with his, fingers plying open Blaine’s shirt buttons. Blaine closed his eyes, tried to go with it. But nothing got very far because as soon as Terrence began easing him back onto the mattress, Blaine pushed him away and shot off of the bed in a scramble.

“I’m sorry,” he said stupidly, fixing his shirt with fumbling fingers. He couldn’t look at Terrence, couldn’t look at anything except the carpet. “I have to go. Sorry.”

\--

Blaine went back to his house, his room, shaking all over.

The scarf Kurt had given him at Christmas was hanging over the back of his desk chair; he’d worn it almost every day until New York happened, and somehow he hadn’t thought to put it away. He took it now, sat on the edge of his bed, wound it around both hands until it was so tight the fabric stretched, threatening to tear. He held it to his face, breathed in, and he expected it to smell like Kurt, but it didn’t smell like anything. That was somehow worse.

He dragged a chair to his closet and pulled down the shoebox full of Kurt mementos, stuffed the scarf inside it and pushed it back out of sight.

God, it’d been long enough, hadn’t it? He had to make room for other things. Why couldn’t he make room for anything else?

\--

The new barista at the Lima Bean—Calista, if her nametag was correct— was more than familiar with Blaine by now, and she began making his order before he could even open his mouth to rattle it off. She smiled at him when she handed it over, and he thanked her by sticking a generous tip in the jar.

He took his medium drip to a table by the window and watched people and dogs walk by, and thought about how his parents never let him have a dog growing up, about whether or not it was too warm to wear cardigans, and about what the hell he was going to do about Terrence.

To distract himself, he took out a notebook from his bag and started to jot out ideas for a Regionals set list. About three song possibilities in, it morphed into a letter. To Terrence. Well, it wasn’t a letter, really; it was a speech. An organization of his thoughts, something Blaine could memorize to explain to him what he felt, what he should’ve said instead of running out so abruptly—

_There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while now, and it should have been sooner, but I’ve been trying to think of the words. I think we’re both just trying to fix the past, but I can’t do that when I should be focusing on my future. I need some time to figure things out on my own. For now I think that means I can’t have a relationship with anyone. I really care about you, and I don’t blame you if you don’t want to talk to me again, but I hope we can be friends._

His phone started ringing before he could write anything more, and he slipped it out of his bag, checked the front screen. Terrence.

Ignoring the call would be too rude. Terrence was owed an explanation.

“Hi,” he answered, feigning casualness. “Isn’t it a little early for you? I thought you didn’t have classes today.”

“I don’t,” Terrence said. “I just wanted to catch you before school.”

So Terrence had woken up early just to accommodate him. That little factoid made what Blaine had to say even harder.

“So, want to tell me what happened last night?” Terrence continued, after Blaine had been quiet for too long. He didn’t sound pissed, but maybe he just hid it well.

“I’m sorry,” Blaine told him. His head was pounding, throat dry. He didn’t know what else to say.

“You don’t have to apologize. I just wanted to make sure everything’s okay. You bailed on me pretty quickly.” There was a pause, and when Blaine didn’t say anything more, Terrence said, “I hope I wasn’t… moving too fast. Like, you know it’s okay if you’re not ready for that, right? You don’t have to be embarrassed. We can go slow.”

Terrence’s voice was so gentle and understanding and it threw Blaine off completely. He was making this so hard. Why did it have to be so hard?

“I guess I’m not,” he finally said. “Ready, I mean.”

“It’s fine, Blaine,” Terrence assured him, still using that soothing voice. Probably realizing Blaine was having trouble with this conversation, he quickly changed the subject. “By the way, I’m using my day off to go shopping for something to wear on Saturday, so I’m hoping you’ll give me some pointers. I don’t know what the kids call fashionable these days.”

“Saturday?”

Terrence half-laughed. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. The Spring Fling thing?”

“Oh.” He sort of had. “Right. Sorry, I’ve just been distracted. Regionals is on Friday.”

“You still want to go together, don’t you?”

Blaine stared down at the page of his notebook, at the words he was supposed to say. But his vision blurred and he couldn’t read any of it. He couldn’t even remember what he’d written. He flipped the notebook shut, stuck it back into his bag.

“Of course.”

He hung up feeling off-center, like he was teetering precariously on a high beam, and even more uncertain about what to do.

\--

He couldn’t concentrate at all. He was pretty sure he totally bombed the pop quiz in calculus, and at glee club rehearsal he couldn’t get even the simplest choreography right.

It got to the point where Artie snapped at him. “We’re not going to win Regionals if our frontman can’t step kick and remember his lyrics at the same time.”

Blaine couldn’t even muster up any righteous anger in response.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m just off today, I guess.”

Sugar positioned herself next to him and said, “It’s okay, I’ll just learn your choreography, that way if you’re still sucking the big one come Regionals I can take over your part. I make way sexier faces when I sing than you do anyway, so we’d totally win.”

“Sugar, I think you’re fine where you were,” Mr. Schuester said tiredly. “Let’s just start it from the top, guys.”

Mr. Schuester was looking at them all like he had a headache that wouldn’t go away. Blaine had never related to him more than in that moment.

\--

They lost at Regionals.

Well, not completely. The silver lining came from beating the Warblers—Blaine took a sort of perverse pleasure he would never admit to anyone in how pissed off Sebastian Smythe looked at being awarded third place, but what had he expected pulling out another subpar Lenny Kravitz number?

Blaine couldn’t blame the loss on being distracted, because the truth was he’d pulled it together and given his personal best, and so had Ginger with her solo. Vocal Adrenaline was just better. The new New Directions had come far this year, but not far enough.

The bus ride back to McKinley was interminably silent.

Next to him Tina bent her head close to his and said, “We did our best. You were really great. You should be proud.”

He smiled back at her the best he could, then looked back down at his hands.

There were more important things in life than stupid trophies. He remembered telling Kurt that, once. It would’ve made a nice consolation prize, though, since it didn’t feel like he’d gotten much else out of life lately besides disappointment. 

\--

Pink. Terrence picked him up for the dance wearing pink.

He also had some flimsy, plastic-looking corsages.

“I’m a broke college student,” he said as he slipped one of them around Blaine’s wrist. “I got these from the dollar store. Deal with it.”

Blaine touched the cloth petals. “It’s very thoughtful of you.”

“I figured it might cheer you up a little.” Terrence leaned over and pecked him on the cheek. “Sorry you didn’t win your competition thing. Next time, huh?”

“Thanks,” Blaine said, didn’t bother pointing out there wouldn’t be a next time for him.

As they parked in the lot outside the school, Blaine noticed the way Terrence kept squirming, making these agitated little noises in the back of his throat. There was anxiety written in every line of his body.

“We don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” he said, putting a hand over Terrence’s. He tried to keep his voice light, like this wasn’t important. And it wasn’t that important, really. Tina probably wouldn’t be thrilled if he no-showed on their duet, but she’d understand.

Terrence whipped his head around to look at him. “What, you think I can’t handle it?”

“I don’t know,” he said, “can you?”

He didn’t mean to issue a challenge, but Terrence’s eyes flashed, and he seemed to take it as one.

“The only thing I can’t handle is going in there sober,” he grumbled. “I’ll wither away from the boredom of it all.”

Terrence unbuckled himself, twisted in his seat and fished around in the back for something, and when he turned forward again he had a bottle of Jack Daniels in his hands.

“Terrence…” Blaine said, looking from the bottle and then up at him.

His mouth tasted coppery and weird, and there was this weird buzzing in his ears. This was like ten kinds of bad as far as ideas went. 

“Oh, don’t be a baby,” Terrence said with an eyeroll as he twisted off the cap. “One of your friends can drive us home after it’s over. We’ll just do a shot or two. Just to get us a little loosened up.”

A shot or two turned into more. Blaine lost track around the third or fourth.

He told himself not to think about it, not to think about how he was dragging Terrence through this potentially traumatizing charade when in his heart he knew he was going to have to break up with him and probably soon, not to think about losing Regionals and the impending NYADA rejection, not to think about Kurt or his perfect face or his voice and how much he missed him.

Every time he started to think of any of it, he just did another shot. All it took was a quick flick of the wrist, and all that other stuff was temporarily burned out. Temporarily of course meaning a matter of seconds.

He felt like a terrible person and he didn’t want to feel like a terrible person. So he kept drinking, until all he felt was warm and woozy, and then he went inside.

\--

The second they passed through the doors, Terrence grabbed his hand. Blaine wasn’t sure if it was for balance, or to make a statement, or maybe both. He glanced at Terrence in surprise.

“What?” Terrence smirked. “Afraid everyone in this town will know you’re a filthy homosexual heathen?”

Blaine laughed, bright and uninhibited, so hard he stumbled a little. He leaned hard against Terrence’s side and said, “Oh no, anything but that. My stellar reputation!”

Terrence cracked up at that, too, and they were practically holding each other up as they wandered into the decorated gym.

The first one to find them was Tina. She approached with a smile, but it faded into confusion when she got a good look at them.

“Blaine, are you drunk?” she asked, incredulous.

He snorted, or tried to, and shook his head furiously, except the movement almost made him fall over into the punch table.

“Shh,” he said, a finger against his lips. “Don’t tell.”

Tina just gaped at him for a minute wordlessly, and then she clamped her mouth shut. “You can’t perform like this,” she said.

“No, no, I can. Don’t you remember Rachel Berry’s party? I was like. A rock star. I was great. I’m fine. I can do it.”

“Who is Rachel Berry?” Terrence said. “That sounds like a cartoon character.”

“She kind of is,” Blaine said, and then dissolved into laughter again.

Tina watched all of this before shaking her head. “I’m going to go find Artie and see if he can cover for us. This isn’t okay. I really can’t believe you, Blaine.”

She shot him one last disappointed look before turning around and hurrying off, and Blaine felt kind of bad about that, and wondered if he should follow her.

Terrence scoffed. “Forget her. I want to dance. Let’s dance.”

That sounded like a better plan to Blaine, so he followed Terrence right into the middle of the packed dance floor.

Sugar and some of the girls were onstage singing. It was Kelly Clarkson, and this song, like, really spoke to Blaine in the moment, except it didn’t make any sense at all—because since Kurt had been gone he didn’t feel like he could breathe any easier. Things had been okay for a while, but now it just sucked, and Kelly had gotten it all wrong, and Terrence was bopping up and down and Blaine couldn’t just bop right back like this was all okay. Terrence was great, he deserved better—he deserved the truth.

“I have a problem. I’m still in love with Kurt and I don’t know what I’m doing with my life and I’ve been using you as a distraction.”

Okay, so the brain to mouth barrier was completely gone.

Terrence just laughed. “That sounds like more than one problem.”

He yanked Blaine to him by the knot of his tie, shoved their mouths together. Apparently Blaine’s confession either hadn’t sunken in, or it didn’t mean much. Terrence’s hands slid down to grab his ass, pull Blaine closer until they were grinding against one another front to front, kissing messy and open-mouthed, borderline obscene. Some sober, rational part of Blaine’s brain knew this was a bad idea and he should stop; the rest of his brain was screaming at him to shut up, because it felt so good. Really, really good.

There wasn’t much time to enjoy it before someone pried him off of Terrence forcefully. 

“That’s enough. Office, now.”

Mr. Schuester had one hand on Blaine’s shoulder in a vice-like grip, eyebrows knit together in disapproval. He kept that hand there while he marched them through the half-tittering, half-shocked crowd to Mrs. Pillsbury’s office. That was probably a good thing, because Blaine couldn’t walk straight on his own.

Mr. Schuester waited until they’d each dropped into a chair, then stepped outside the doorway and traded a few words with Mrs. Pillsbury that Blaine couldn’t overhear and didn't particularly want to. She walked in a minute later with even wider eyes than usual and sat down behind the desk.

“I don’t think I need to explain to you how inappropriate this is,” she said. “Blaine, Mr. Schuester is calling your parents. You’ll wait here until someone comes to pick you up.”

“My parents?” Blaine echoed weakly. He couldn’t imagine what they’d have to say about this.

Suddenly Terrence started laughing, loud and hiccupy, so hard he fell out of his chair. It took a minute for him to pick himself up off the floor. Mrs. Pillsbury looked at him like she didn’t know what to do.

“I just don’t understand,” she said, turning to Blaine. “This kind of behavior is very unlike you.”

He couldn’t explain it to her. Didn’t even know how. His stomach felt nauseous, from more than just the alcohol. But he had to say something.

“We can’t keep doing this. I think we’re both just trying to fix the past, but I can’t do that when I should be focusing on my future. I need some time to figure things out on my own. No relationships. With anyone. I really care about you. Please don’t hate me.”

Blaine was pretty impressed with himself for remembering as much of his speech as he did when he was this drunk. He realized it would’ve been more impressive if he a) wasn't slurring so many syllables and b) had addressed it to Terrence instead of the _You’re Only Ugly Til Your Acne Goes Away_ pamphlet on the corner of Mrs. Pillsbury’s desk.

Terrence didn’t respond; Blaine couldn’t tell if he’d even listened to a single word. Mrs. Pillsbury frowned at him.

“Well, Blaine, I think that’s an excellent idea,” she said slowly. “It sounds like you have a lot you need to work out for yourself.”

The door opened, and in came Mr. Schuester, grim-faced as before. He stood there staring down at them with that same disapproving look. It was unbearable.

“Is this the part where you yell at me?” Blaine said.

“No. I think your parents will take care of that.”

He covered his face with his hand. “Oh god.”

Terrence stopped picking at the thread of his chair cushion and came to life now, springing to his feet. “The only reason anybody’s mad is because we’re gay! God forbid the breeders have to witness the homos! Screw this! Maybe you should take the stick out of your—”

“Sit down,” Mr. Schuester said sharply, in that authoritative teacher voice that left no room for argument.

Terrence sank back into the chair.

“You’re both underage and you've shown up at a school function intoxicated. I can smell it from across the room. You're lucky you’re not getting suspended, Blaine. This is serious stuff. We’re being more than fair.”

“Fair? _Fair_?” Blaine’s anger took him by surprise; it was old, sudden, and sour. “Anyone with a letterman jacket can walk around this school throwing slushies in people’s faces without so much as a dirty look! I almost lost an eye last year and the guy who did it didn’t even get a slap on the wrist! Don’t tell me what’s fair. You don’t know anything!”

“Blaine—”

“What, is that hard to hear? Because it’s true. No one ever does anything when it actually matters. You think you’re different, but you’re not. You’re just like the rest of them!”

Mr. Schuester fell quiet for a long moment. “Are you done?” he asked eventually.

“No!” Blaine said in a burst of petulance, except he immediately realized he had nothing else to say. He fidgeted for a moment before adding, “Also, your sweater vest is hideous.”

That zinger didn’t seem to land the way Blaine had hoped. Mr. Schuester just stared back at him, unimpressed.

“All right, I think it’s best you stop talking,” he said. “Your mom’s on her way. I’m going to give your… friend here a ride home.”

\--

When Blaine’s mother arrived, she had this short conversation with Mr. Schuester outside and then came into the office. She could barely look Blaine in the eye, and she definitely wasn’t looking at Terrence.

“Let’s go,” she said tersely.

She didn’t say a word to him until they were halfway back to the house.

“I think it’s best we don’t tell your father about this,” she said.

Blaine lifted his head from where he’d leaned it against the window so he could look at her. “Really?”

“It’s not for your benefit,” she said, giving him a hard look, and of course it wasn’t. Of course. “He’s been stressed with work lately, he doesn’t need this on top of it.”

“Fine.”

“But you are being punished, trust me on that one. We’ll discuss it in the morning.”

“Fine.”

Fine. Fine. Everything was fine. Except that nothing was, at all.

\--

His mother grounded Blaine into infinity, but cutting off his social life didn’t really mean anything when his best friend was rightfully furious with him and his sort-of-boyfriend was MIA.

Monday rolled around, and Tina wouldn’t even talk to him. He didn’t blame her.

Terrence hadn’t texted or called or emailed or anything. Blaine didn’t blame him for that, either.

New Directions weren’t national champions anymore, and one competition loss was enough to knock them all the way back down to the bottom rung of the social ladder. Jacob Ben-Israel wrote a scathing Regionals review on this blog tearing them all to shreds, and after a blissfully slushie-free year, Blaine ended up in the bathroom twice trying to rinse it out of his hair and using the last of his gel to pat it into place.

He couldn’t bring himself to face Mr. Schuester, and so for the first time ever he skipped the after school glee club rehearsal and drove straight home instead.

As if things weren’t bad enough already, there was a letter from NYADA waiting for him on the kitchen counter. When he went to grab it, he stubbed his toe against the cabinets and spent the next minute hopping up and down on one foot hissing in pain, and if that wasn’t a sign that the universe was out to get him then Blaine didn’t know what was.

Once the pain in his toe subsided to a dull throb, he picked up the envelope, torn between a sliver of rising hope and crushing dread. The dread was winning out. He stared at the envelope for about ten minutes before he could make himself tear open the seal.

> _Dear Mr. Anderson:_

> _Now that the evaluation of applicants for our next entering class has been essentially completed, we find that your application and audition review fall in the category of being very highly ranked, but that we are unfortunately unable at this time to offer you a place in next year's program._

> _There is always a possibility that in the coming weeks and months some places in the program will become available for any number of reasons. To fill these places as they become vacant, we consult a "list of alternates", made up of highly ranked applicants such as yourself._

> _Please indicate by the date below if you are interested in accepting this offer to be put on our list of alternates._

Blaine didn’t bother reading anything more after that.

There was only one person he wanted to talk to. He blindly fumbled for his phone and dialed without thinking.

“Rachel, for the third time, I am not pulling an all-nighter with you to rush for Miss Saigon. Find someone else and stop calling me!”

Blaine took a deep breath, pushed out the words before his nerves could get the better of him. “This… isn’t Rachel.”

“Blaine?” Kurt said, voice full of shock. It was followed by a loud thump.

“Kurt? Are you there?”

“Yes, yes. Sorry. I just… fell off the bed.”

“We lost Regionals,” he said.

“Blaine—” Kurt started, but Blaine cut him off.

“We lost Regionals, I got slushied twice before lunch today, last weekend I crashed the Spring Fling with this guy I’ve been sort of seeing and we got completely wasted and he told Mr. Schuester to take the stick out of his ass while I brilliantly insulted his fashion sense, Tina is mad at me for good reason, I just found out NYADA waitlisted me, and I can’t remember the last time I spoke to my best friend in the entire world. That being you, if it wasn’t clear.” He paused, feeling faintly nauseous. “Kurt? Can you please say something?”

Glaciers moved in the time before Kurt spoke again.

“That’s… a lot to process all at once,” he said slowly. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

Blaine thought about it for a moment. “I stubbed my toe right before I called you, and it really, really hurts.”

Kurt huffed out an amused laugh at that, and Blaine breathed a little easier, something in his chest unclenching.

“I’m not sure where to start,” Kurt said. “I have to admit, my brain is kind of stuck on the Spring Fling debacle.”

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” Blaine said, sighing a little. “I wasn’t, really. I was stupid and drunk. And did I mention stupid?”

“Blaine Anderson, are you telling me you made poor life decisions while under the influence of alcohol? I am positively shocked. That’s never happened,” Kurt replied dryly. 

“It was a mistake,” Blaine said. “A really bad one. I’ve been making a lot of those lately.” He felt his throat close up, aching, and tried to push down the sudden swell of emotion. “Everything is really screwed up.”

“Okay,” Kurt said, “I’m going to need some time to wrap my head around all this, so let’s take it one life crisis at a time. You said NYADA waitlisted you? When did you find out?”

“I just got the letter today.”

“Read it to me.”

He unfolded the letter, smoothing out the creases, and read it aloud into the phone, like maybe the sentences had magically rearranged themselves since the last time he’d looked. They hadn’t. When he was finished, he dropped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, waiting for Kurt to say something.

“That’s not so bad,” Kurt said, hopeful. “It’s not a flat-out rejection. Maybe there will be an opening—”

“Kurt, people will do anything to get into this program,” Blaine reminded him. “Literally. I read online about a kid’s mother who hired someone to break another girl’s leg before her audition. NYADA isn’t anyone’s second choice. No one turns them down. You know that.”

“It is pretty cutthroat,” Kurt conceded. “Rachel’s absolutely convinced this girl in her vocal tech class tried to spike her vitamin water with laxatives in a jealous rage.” He paused. “I just don’t understand. How did they not accept you in the first place? You have a stellar resume, you’ve booked gigs with amusement park productions for years, you’ve been in the school musicals, you’re one of the lead members of what last year was the country’s top ranked show choir, and your GPA is great. You did everything right.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“I blew the interview,” he confessed. “When you had yours, did they ask you where you thought you’d be in ten years?”

“Oh, yeah, that one was easy,” Kurt said. “Broadway, one Tony under my belt, and developing my own projects to get into production on the side. Of course, if I’d known back then the insane workload involved, I would’ve given a much more accurate answer, which is that I’ll most likely be institutionalized and locked up in a straitjacket, singing Sondheim on a loop and running into padded walls.” He snorted, and Blaine laughed a little at the imagery. “Why, what did you tell them?”

“I said I didn’t know.”

“Oh. Were you nervous, or…?”

“No, it was the truth,” he said. “It is the truth. I keep thinking about it, but I don’t really know.”

“I thought you wanted to be a performer and be in New York,” Kurt said, and Blaine could practically hear the gears working in his head. “Wait, wait… Blaine… did you only ever say that because you thought it was what I wanted?” He sounded alarmed and vaguely horrified by the idea.

“Of course not,” Blaine said hastily. “I do still want New York. And I love performing. I’m just not sure anymore if I love it the way I’m supposed to if I’m going to spend the rest of my life doing it. I mean… remember last year? Why didn’t you apply for any backup schools?”

“I don’t know, a stunning lack of foresight?”

“No, you didn’t apply anywhere else because there was nothing else for you. You knew exactly what you wanted and you weren’t going to settle for less. When I got the letter and realized I was on the waitlist, I was sad, and it sucks, but… I don’t think I’m as devastated as I should be?”

“So you’re feeling bad because you’re not suicidal?”

“Well, when you put it that way it just sounds ridiculous.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not trying to trivialize things,” Kurt said. “I’m just trying to understand.”

Blaine rubbed the space between his eyes and sighed. “Me too.”

“Blaine…” Kurt’s voice was low and soft and kind, and god, Blaine just ached with the knowledge that he was saying all of this six hundred miles away, probably locked in his closet-sized bedroom. Blaine didn’t want Kurt to be here; he wanted to be _there_ , next to Kurt on that bed shoved up to the window, the whole of Manhattan rushing by underneath them.

Instead he was here in Ohio, on the kitchen floor, the cabinets digging into his back. He shifted, drew his legs up off the linoleum and hugged his knees to his chest.

“You need to do what’ll make you happy,” Kurt said to him. “Wherever—whatever—that is.”

He made it sound so simple. It should’ve been, but it really wasn’t.

Blaine closed his eyes. “Are you happy?”

“Yes,” Kurt said, and his answer was without a trace of hesitation, and Blaine was glad about that. “I’m living in a city I love, going to a school I love, studying to make a living doing what I love, surrounded by people who love it all the same way I love it. I’m not saying it’s perfect, because it’s not. Before I got here, I’d built everything up in my head so much… nothing could live up to that. Sometimes it’s hard and scary and I wonder what the hell I think I’m doing here. But at the end of the day, I love my life. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

“Good,” Blaine said. “That’s how it should be.”

“What about you?”

“I’m… dealing,” he said, trying to think of a way to explain. “It’s been a hard year, but I think… I think I’m growing up. Which is weird because I’d kind of thought I’d already done that.”

“I know the feeling,” Kurt sympathized. “Just when you feel on top of things and mature and adult, it’s like reality comes along and bitchslaps you in the face and suddenly it’s as if you’re twelve all over again.”

He felt a rush of helpless gratitude for Kurt then, that after everything he could do this for Blaine, that there wasn’t any hostility or resentment. Just understanding. Like he’d already let go of any anger he may’ve had. Blaine didn’t know how he could do it.

“Kurt, I’m sorry,” he said. “What I said to you—it was wrong. I was just trying to be hurtful, and I hate that I was the kind of person who would try to do that to you. I shouldn’t have said it.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Kurt said, “but I wasn’t exactly playing nice either. So I’m sorry, too.”

“And I’m sorry for dumping everything on you like this,” Blaine went on. Now that he’d started talking, he couldn’t stop. “Especially when we haven’t even talked since… last time. And here I am, burdening you with all of my stupid problems. You must think I’m a total basket case.”

“Oh, trust me, I’ve thought of you as a basket case long before now,” Kurt teased. His voice turned more earnest. “But you’ve never been a burden.”

“You’ve never made me feel like one,” Blaine told him softly. “It’s why I loved you so much.”

The past tense was a lie, but it felt safe. He didn’t want to—things still felt delicate, right now, and it was big enough to talk to Kurt like this at all. Now was not the time to push things.

A long enough silence passed that Blaine worried he’d already pushed it too far with that, but then Kurt cleared his throat and said, “Blaine, honestly, I’m glad you called. It feels wrong when we don’t talk. And I want to talk more, try to help you figure this out, but you caught me at a bad time. I have to go, I’m supposed to be meeting someone—”

“Julian?” he ventured, trying to keep his voice neutral.

A short pause, and then, “Yes, Julian. He got us tickets tonight to this show in Union Square, something about Argentinian acrobats—I don’t know, it’s supposed to be mind-blowing, and I’m meeting him for dinner first, and I haven’t even decided on if I should wear my grey stripe suit or this new checkered blazer I picked up last weekend in Williamsburg—”

“The grey stripe suit… the one you wore last year, for the debate?”

“As much as I’ve tried to repress that memory, yes, that is the one and same.”

“Go with that,” Blaine said confidently. “Your silhouette is amazing in it. The fit is impeccable. It’s perfect.”

“The grey it is, then,” Kurt said, and Blaine couldn’t see his face, but he thought Kurt was smiling. “Thank you. You’ve saved me an hour of agonizing in front of my closet.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said. “Besides, I should be thanking you. You’re the one who talked me off the non-suicidal brink.”

“Oh, that was nothing. I live with Rachel Berry. I have talking people through emotional meltdowns down to an art form,” Kurt said airily. He paused for a moment. “Wait, this guy you mentioned… he really told Mr. Schue to take the stick out of his ass?”

“Well, he got about halfway there before Mr. Schuester cut him off.”

“Hmm. I like the sound of him already.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Blaine said. “It’s over.”

“Oh.” There wasn’t enough in that one syllable for Blaine to detect whatever Kurt might be thinking. “I’m sorry I don’t have time right now to address your problems one-by-one, but Blaine? I suggest starting off with apologies. Mr. Schue is a softie, and he’s dealt with worse than a few ego blows about his wardrobe. And Tina loves you. She’ll come around.”

Blaine smiled into the phone, closed his eyes. “Thanks, Kurt. You know, if the Broadway thing doesn’t work out—even though I know it will— you could always go into life coaching.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said. There was a short silence and the sound of springs creaking, like he’d moved off of the bed. “So, I suppose… I’ll talk to you later?”

“Yeah, that’d be good,” Blaine said. “I’d like that.”

He hung up the phone feeling five times lighter. Even though he still had no idea what he was going to do about—well, pretty much anything, at least he’d admitted it out loud to someone. At least he knew his tie to Kurt hadn’t been permanently severed, knew he could reach out and Kurt would still be there. That was an amazing feeling.

It made everything else a little easier.

\--

Kurt was right about the apologies.

Mr. Schuester came first. That one was easy. All Blaine had to do was show up early for practice to make his mea culpa.

“I wanted to apologize,” he said, hands stuffed in his pockets, the toe of his shoe scuffing the floor. “I know you were just doing your job, and I was really, really out of line.”

“I appreciate that,” Mr. Schuester said. He put a hand on Blaine’s shoulder, but it wasn’t rough like it’d been at the dance. It was kind, and his face was kind, too. “Look, Blaine, I do realize how it may seem sometimes… but I hope you know that I really do care. I always wish I could do more.”

Blaine nodded. “I know,” he said, and he did really believe that.

“Things are going to be better at this school,” Mr. Schuester told him. “They already are. I don’t know if he realizes it, but Kurt really made a difference here. So have you. And I’m proud of you for stepping up this year. I know you feel like your future’s up in the air right now, but I believe you’re going to go on to do great things. I really do.”

Something in Blaine lurched at those words. It took him a minute to recognize what it was. Hope.

“You’re the best teacher I’ve had,” he said. Okay, maybe that wasn’t saying a lot, but it was the truth, and Mr. Schuester looked like he needed to hear it.

Maybe Mr. Schuester didn’t get everything right, but no one could. And he’d created this club, so that meant he’d done something pretty special. It wasn’t something Blaine would forget.

\--

“I was an idiot, and a jerk, and I’m sorry,” Blaine said.

Tina stood at her front door with her arms folded over her chest and stared at him, unblinking. “Is that all you have to say?”

He pulled out a pint of ice cream and the books he’d picked up for her out of his bag.

“I have rocky road, _The Purity Myth: How America’s Obsession with Virginity is Hurting Young Women, Backlash: The Undeclared War Against American Women_ , and a new biography on Gloria Steinem,” he said. “Forgive me?”

She beamed at him. “I think I can find it in me to get over it.”

\--

The hardest was Terrence.

Blaine sent a text asking to meet up at the Lima Bean, and when he arrived, Terrence was already there, sitting at the table Blaine had always thought of as his and Kurt’s. He tried not to think about that when he sat down in the chair across from Terrence.

“Hi,” he said, not sure how to start. “Thanks for meeting me.”

Terrence looked as tentative as Blaine felt. “Thanks for _wanting_ to meet me.”

Blaine tried for a disarming smile. “We kind of made a mess of things, didn’t we?” he said.

“Kind of? I’d say it was rather epic,” Terrence said, and now he was smiling too as he stirred his coffee. 

There was no point in beating around the bush.

“This isn’t going to work,” Blaine said. “It was never going to.”

Terrence didn’t even blink. “I know. I always did, I think.”

“And we still tried. Why did we do that?”

“Who knows. Why does anyone do anything?”

Blaine lifted his coffee to his mouth, took a long drink, and said, “You know, we never talked about it.”

He didn’t have to elaborate on that point for Terrence to understand. Terrence’s face softened, and one thumb edged around the rim of his cup.

“My parents stuck me in therapy for six months,” he said to Blaine, meeting his eyes. “I guess I feel like there’s not much left to say.”

“Did you hate me?” Blaine asked. “For… running away. It’s okay if you did. I hated myself for it.”

Terrence didn’t speak for a minute. Finally he said, “Yes, I hated you. But uh, I hated everyone in the entire fucking world for a while. My parents, the teachers, every single person in that school, my therapist, my neighbors, salespeople at the mall, Republicans. God, I think I even hated the mailman. It was a non-discriminatory kind of hatred, so don’t take it personally.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m down to just hating the assholes who did it. According to my therapist I’m supposed to let that go because it’s unhealthy negative energy, but I don’t see that happening, like, ever,” Terrence said, and then paused. “Well, I guess I still hate Republicans too, but really, who doesn’t.”

Blaine smiled faintly. “So you’re okay now?”

He should’ve asked that the first time he saw Terrence again. He should’ve reached out to him before then, not waited until some accidental meeting. It was long overdue.

“I’m okay,” Terrence said. And he looked okay. So maybe he was. “I promise that I’m not as fucked up as you probably think I am.”

“I don’t think you’re— you know. I just. Wanted to make sure.”

“It’s weird, because like, I think part of me liked being around you because it reminded me of what it was like before all of that crap happened, you know?” Terrence mused, looking thoughtful. “But then it made me think about everything that _did_ happen, and that whole dance thing, going with you— I think I thought I could prove to myself I was over it or whatever.”

“I don’t know if you really get over something like that,” Blaine said. “I think maybe you just move on.”

They looked at each other then, and it was… a moment. But a different kind of moment. The kind Blaine had always thought about when he imagined coming face-to-face with Terrence again. An understanding. A sort of wisdom that could only be shared between them, the kind they shouldn’t have had to learn but had anyway.

Terrence cleared his throat and said, “Well, speaking of moving on— I’ve actually been going to classes and doing this novel thing called ‘studying’ in order to keep up my GPA, so if all goes according to plan, next year I’m going to transfer somewhere else.”

“Really?” Blaine was a little taken aback. “That’s great. Where?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Terrence said, face splitting into a grin, “but I’m not picky so long as the gay scene is better than this place. That’s a pretty low bar though, isn’t it?”

They both laughed a little at that, and it felt. Normal. A new kind of normal.

\--

After that, there was only one person left to make things right with. Thankfully it wasn’t anything he’d personally inflicted, which was good because Blaine was starting to feel like every other sentence that came out of his mouth was an apology, and even though they were necessary, they were still exhausting.

It was Ginger. He and Tina stumbled in on her in the choir room after school, bent over the piano and making these sort of muffled, strained, high-pitched noises. Crying. She was crying.

He traded a silent look with Tina as they approached her, and Blaine knew she was on the same page as him. Time to put on the supportive face.

“What’s wrong?” Tina asked, sitting down on one side of the piano bench.

Blaine grabbed a box of tissues from Mr. Schuester’s office and sat down on Ginger’s other side. She took one of the tissues and delicately wiped off her tear-stained cheeks.

“It’s my fault we lost Regionals,” she said. “You shouldn’t have given me the solo. I ruined everything.”

“That’s not true,” he told her. “Come on, you know better than that.”

“It is,” she insisted. “And now I get slushied at least twice a week and everyone thinks we’re losers and—” Ginger lowered her head so her hair hung down over her face, hiding her mouth. “I wanted to be the next Rachel Berry. Instead I’m just a freak.”

“Okay, first of all, there is only one Rachel Berry,” Blaine said.

“Which is good,” Tina added, “because I don’t think the world could handle two."

Ginger’s face fell even further. 

Blaine placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “The good news is, there’s also only ever going to be one Ginger Kensington.”

“I just wanted to be great,” she sniffed as she tucked her hair behind her ears. When she looked up, her eyes were shining. “For once.”

“You were,” Tina said firmly. “You _are_.”

“And you’re only going to get better,” Blaine said. “It took Rachel three years to lead us to a win at Nationals. She had to work for it. Talent like that doesn’t all just come naturally—it comes from practice and determination and wanting it bad enough to know how to pick yourself up off the floor and push forward.”

“Blaine’s right.” Tina touched Ginger’s elbow, waited until Ginger looked over at her. “Next year we’re going to be gone, and it’s going to be up to you guys to get better. But you can do it.”

“Besides,” Blaine said, “I am personally friends with Rachel Berry. I emailed her the video of your solo, and you know what she told me? She said she was impressed that we’d managed to find comparable talent. So you’ve got the Rachel Berry gold star of approval.”

That was all true, though he did purposefully fail to mention the other details from Rachel’s email, which had added that while Ginger had a lot of potential, it had to be pointed out that she was shaky hitting the high F and her performance style was too rigid and she lacked Rachel’s natural charisma and showmanship.

But Blaine figured a half-lie wouldn’t hurt in this case, and Ginger looked a lot happier after that, so it was all for the best.

\--

Even though there weren’t any competitions left for the year, they still rehearsed. A lot. Artie was determined to leave New Directions in the best shape possible before graduation.

Sometimes Blaine would send Kurt random texts during breaks in practice, or silly pictures of him and Tina making faces in the choir room, and Kurt would send back random snapshots of the city—like the woman in a bee costume on the F train, the view from his apartment window, Rachel dressed in her waitress uniform flashing her thousand-watt smile at the camera.

They were little glimpses into each other’s lives, and it was something Blaine had missed more than he’d even realized.

\--

It happened when Blaine wasn’t even expecting it.

It was just a typical Wednesday after school, and when Blaine walked into the house, he wasn’t really thinking about anything besides finishing an essay for AP lit and catching the new America’s Next Top Model episode and probably texting back and forth with Kurt about it, and maybe seeing if Sugar wanted to go see that new movie on Friday since Tina had this weird hang-up about Kristen Stewart and refused to go with him. 

His mother was in the living room, watching some talk show with bickering women who all spoke over each other, and as he passed by she called, “Something came for you in the mail, honey. I left it in the kitchen.”

Blaine dropped his bag at the foot of the staircase, surprised that not only did she sound pleased, but that she’d called him by a pet name on top of it, since she still wasn’t totally over the whole Spring Fling thing. 

“Okay, thanks,” he called back, and wandered into the kitchen.

And there it was, sitting on the counter. An envelope.

A big one.

From NYU.

His hands were trembling when he tore it open, and all he had to read was the first line, the first word— _Congratulations!_ —before he dropped the entire thing.

He was going to New York.

He called Tina immediately, and she picked up half a ring in, and before he could even get a word out, she said, “Blaine, I just found out. I got into Michigan.”

“Oh my god,” he said, and he had to laugh, because sometimes the universe worked out perfectly. “I was just calling you to tell _you_. I got in.”

She gasped. “NYU?”

“Yes. NYU. I’m going to New York.”

“Oh my god,” she said, like she hardly had enough air to speak, “get in your car and meet me at the Lima Bean right now.”

He was out the door in a flash, fighting against the urge to break every speed limit, and Tina pulled into the parking lot about ten seconds after he did. They got out of their cars at the same time, met each other halfway in the middle of the parking lot. He caught her in a tight, breathless hug, spun her around a little in his excitement.

“We did it!” she said, and let out this delighted half-squeal, kicking her feet.

Blaine couldn’t stop laughing, too giddy for words. “We really did.”

He almost couldn’t believe it. A few hours ago his entire future had been a toss-up, and now it was concrete. He had a plan. A school. A city. A dream. One that was actually happening. And it was more than just the acceptance. The moment he’d read that letter, he knew in a way he hadn’t before that all along this was exactly what he’d wanted. It was better than Columbia, better than Cornell, even better than NYADA. That was where he wanted to be.

It was all going to happen.

\--

It was funny how fast things could turn around. 

In a weird way he was kind of grateful not to have Nationals because it left him more relaxed in the last few months of the school year. After spending so much time feeling out of sorts, it was nice to be this stress-free. Suddenly everything was on track. His friends were getting what they wanted, and his parents were pretty pleased that he was going to NYU, and he felt good about how things were going.

Prom rolled around, and he almost wasn’t going to go after the Spring Fling disaster, but Tina and Sugar convinced him otherwise.

“It’ll be fun,” Tina said. “We’ll go together. Well, not _together_ together, obviously, but you know.”

Sugar said, “Yeah, and the group pictures are going to look super awkward if it’s just me and Artie and then Tina standing by herself like a sad crazy cat lady in training.”

So he went. It was senior year, after all, and one of those things his future children would probably question him about, and he didn’t want to have to tell them he’d stayed in watching a Project Runway marathon while all his friends lived it up.

They met up at Sugar’s house for the pictures—sort of awkward, since he and Tina were dateless and Sugar and Artie were obviously not— and Sugar’s dad rented a limo for the school arrival, which was fun, except for when Tina jokingly made Blaine sit far away from the locked mini-bar. It was a little too soon for him to find that situation anything other than mortifying.

Prom itself was… prom. Not quite the same going without a date, but he had Tina, and that was just about as good. The only weird moments came when the slow songs played and he had to stand awkwardly on the sidelines. Halfway through, she disappeared for a few minutes, and returned with some punch.

“Glad you came?” Tina said, handing him the cup while all the couples swayed to the strains of Cyndi Lauper.

“Very.” Blaine took a grateful sip. “If you’d asked me two months ago my answer would be wildly different, but—you were right about this year. It’s shaping up to be pretty amazing.”

“I knew it would be,” she said with a hint of smugness. Her eyes went past him, and she stole the cup from his hands. “It’s about to get better.”

Before he could ask her what she meant, there was a tapping on his shoulder.

“Excuse me.”

He turned, and his mouth dropped open with shock.

It was Kurt, decked out in a shiny tux, corsage neatly pinned to his lapel.

Kurt just smiled and held out his hand. “May I have this dance?”

Too much at a loss for words, Blaine stared at him for a few moments, blinking rapidly like Kurt would dissipate in front of his eyes—but he didn’t. He was there. When that fact sank in, he silently accepted Kurt’s hand, their fingers tangling together, and just about nearly floated his way to the dance floor.

“You’re here,” he said when he found his voice again. “How are you here?”

“Tina snuck me through the choir room window,” Kurt explained. “Thankfully I did it without ruining the suit. It’s designer.”

Oh, Blaine thought dully. So that was where she’d gone.

Kurt slipped an arm around Blaine’s waist, pulled him in.

Blaine just shook his head. “I can’t—seriously, _how are you here_?”

“It was a little last minute as far as covert plans go, but I made it happen. Tina is much better than Rachel at keeping a secret.”

He sounded so calm, and Blaine couldn’t wrap his brain around what was happening. His hand settled on Kurt’s shoulder, his feet moving automatically with Kurt’s to the song.

“You can’t keep surprising me like this,” he said. “You’re too good at it. One of these days I’m going to drop dead of a heart attack.” He was smiling so hard it hurt his face. “You are too much.”

Kurt swung him around lightly, smiling right back. “I wanted to be here,” he said. “It’s your senior prom, Blaine. It should be magical.”

They danced under the spinning lights, Cyndi singing away about catching someone when they fell, time after time, and Blaine just closed his eyes and savored the moment. It was more than magical. It was perfect.

\--

“I’m not coming back for the summer,” Kurt said.

They were at the Lima Bean for a post-prom, mid-afternoon coffee non-date, seated at their table, and wasn’t that a bit of a mind trip.

Blaine tried not to let his face react too much to this news. “How come?”

“I got an internship,” he explained. “I couldn’t pass it up. Plus my dad’s in D.C. half the time anyway, so it didn’t make sense to stay here. He’s home for the weekend, so we can catch up, and he and Carole and Finn all want to come out to visit New York at some point. And Mercedes is crashing at our apartment in two weeks, so I’m excited about that. I haven’t seen her in forever.”

“Well, that sounds like a good opportunity,” Blaine said. “I don’t blame you for taking it.”

Kurt hummed a little and rubbed a napkin between his fingers. “I’m just sorry I’ll miss your graduation.”

“Oh, that? You’re not missing anything. You’ve been there, done that. Have the diploma to prove it.”

“Not to mention the emotional scars.”

“Those too,” Blaine grinned.

“So what about you?” Kurt asked. “Any plans for the summer?”

Blaine shrugged. “Not particularly. I’ll just be getting ready to make the big move.”

He didn’t miss the way Kurt’s whole face lit up.

“We’re going to be in the same city,” he said, like Blaine didn’t know this already, like he hadn’t thought about it practically every day. “You’re going to love it. I can be your tour guide.”

“I think I’ll need one,” Blaine said. 

Kurt just smiled at him for a moment, and then he leaned his chin on one hand and said, “Julian and I broke up.”

He announced it rather casually, and Blaine wasn’t sure what to make of that.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he was surprised at how much he meant it. He really did just want Kurt to be happy. Whoever it was with.

“Don’t be,” Kurt said. “I’m pretty sure it was the most amicable split in the history of failed relationships. I just… I didn’t see it going anywhere. I didn’t want to waste his time. Or mine.”

Blaine nodded. “I get that.”

That was how it’d been with him and Terrence, in a way. That was really what it’d boiled down to in the end.

It had never felt that way with Kurt. It had always felt like it was going somewhere, until it suddenly wasn’t. And he knew someday it’d happen again—he’d find someone who made him feel the same way, like there was really something there to be had. Maybe it would be with Kurt, or maybe it wouldn’t, but it would happen eventually.

In the meantime, he could wait.

\--

Graduation was sort of a non-event. It was one of those events that was supposed to be this life-defining, unforgettable milestone, but for Blaine it felt like it just kind of happened. 

His parents were there, which marked the first time they’d set foot on McKinley’s premises since he’d enrolled, and they made him stand for pictures afterward even though he was itchy and hot in the red gown. At one point his dad clapped him on the shoulder and said, “You did good,” and that was the closest he’d come to expressing genuine emotion toward Blaine in years. Such displays were in his dad’s mind typically only reserved for events like the Superbowl or hammering your thumb by accident.

It was all kind of surreal, cleaning out his locker for the last time, realizing he wouldn’t walk those halls again or eat that crappy cafeteria food or check any books out from the library. At the last glee club meeting of the year, Tina and Mr. Schuester got a little weepy, and Blaine was a bit misty-eyed himself. So much had happened in that choir room—so much had happened with these people—and now he wouldn’t be part of them anymore. That part of his life was over. But it was okay, because New York was waiting for him, and so it wasn’t really an ending. Just a new direction.

\--

So his summer was pretty uneventful, until he ran into Santana Lopez.

Blaine had to do a double take before he recognized her. No Cheerios uniform, and she’d cut her hair to shoulder length. She was just standing in line in front of him in the gas station, digging through her purse, and he had no idea what she was even doing in Lima.

“Santana?”

It wasn’t until he said her name that she noticed him. Her eyebrows arched.

“Blaine,” she said, taking him in. “Wow, you haven’t changed a bit. Still have the same hideous taste in bow ties, I see.”

He ignored that because honestly, it was a mild insult by Santana standards, and he was weirdly happy to see her. Which didn’t make a whole lot of sense, since yeah, they’d been okay with each other as much as Santana was okay with anybody, but never particularly close.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “You’re in New York now, right? How’ve you been?”

“None of your business, yes, and not really in the mood for twenty questions,” she replied. “The early afternoon Breadstix special is only offered for another forty minutes, and like hell am I missing that.”

She forked over her credit card to the cashier, drummed her nails impatiently on the counter and turned her back to him again.

“Hey, do you think we could talk for a bit?” he said. “I’m moving to New York at the end of summer. I could use some advice.”

“Isn’t that what Hummel and Berry are for?”

“Please?” he said, before pulling out the trump card: “I’ll buy you lunch.”

It worked. She looked over her shoulder at him and lifted her chin in a small nod. “Deal.”

\--

It turned out that for such a skinny girl, Santana’s stomach was like a bottomless pit. Before the waitress even handed them their menus, she’d scarfed down an entire container of breadsticks. Blaine was just glad they were complementary.

“All right,” she said, wiping her mouth off with a napkin and tossing it onto the table, “you’ve got my attention for the next half hour. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

Of course, that was the very moment Sebastian chose to appear at their table.

“Oh, what’s this?” he said, smirking. “A little family reunion? How heartwarming. Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Santana turned the full force of her glare on him, and wow, Blaine had forgotten how scary that could be. “What do you want, Ratatouille? We’re having a conversation here.”

“I only came to offer my condolences,” he said, and then turned to Blaine. “I heard through the grapevine Blaine got rejected from NYADA. It’s such a shame, really. I can’t imagine the humiliation.”

Blaine clenched his fists under the table, staring back hard at Sebastian. “Thanks,” he said shortly, “but that’s not necessary. I’m doing just fine.”

“Yeah, I heard New Directions kicked your ass ten ways to Sunday at Regionals, so you don’t really have room to say much of anything, do you?” she snapped. “And if you don’t back away from this table in the next five seconds, I will use this fork to skewer your smug mud-colored eyeballs like a fuckin’ shish kebab. Got it?”

Sebastian held up his hands in mock surrender. “You can retract the claws, Lopez. I’m leaving.”

He slinked off, and Blaine rolled his eyes as soon as he was out of sight.

“I really hate that guy,” he muttered.

Santana set the fork back down at the table. “Wait, so it’s true? You didn’t get into NYADA?”

“They waitlisted me,” Blaine explained. It sounded a little better than a flat out rejection. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I got into NYU, and I’m happy about it.”

“So what is it you need from me?”

“I don’t know. You’ve been living there for a year. You’re… opinionated. I just thought maybe you’d have some… words of wisdom to dispense.”

“Look,” she said, “I could sit here and tell you what it’s like, but you’re not going to really know until you get there. It’s just how it is.” Her phone suddenly buzzed, and she picked it up, glaring at it like it personally offended her. “Goddammit.”

He leaned a little toward her. “What is it?”

“You want my advice?” she said. “Never get a fucking roommate off Craigslist. This is the third one I’ve been through this year. My plane barely lands in Ohio and I turn on my phone to see I’ve got fifteen text messages telling me she’s decided to move to some hippie commune in Vermont and won’t be paying July’s rent, and once again I’m totally fucked.”

“You didn’t have her sign a contract?”

“What, do I look like a lawyer to you?” she said. She paused. “You can answer that, actually.”

He blinked at her, confused. “…Yes?”

Santana looked pleased at that answer, so apparently he’d gotten it right. She suddenly tilted her head and studied him closely. Her eyebrows were drawn together, except for once she wasn’t glowering at Blaine, she was just. Thinking.

“Have you figured out housing yet?” she asked.

“Not officially,” he said, even more confused now. “I’m planning on rooming in the dorms, I guess.”

She looked like she was thinking again, and then she leaned forward over the table, resting her chin on her joined hands. “Do you want to move in with me?”

Okay, this was officially the most surreal conversation of his entire life.

“You want me,” he said. “To move in. With you?”

“Not if you’re going to ask stupid fucking questions, but yeah, that’s what I’m saying.”

“But…” So many unanswered questions running through his head. He started with the most obvious. “ _Why_?”

Santana ticked reasons off on her fingers. “I need a roommate, you need somewhere to live, I’m tired of being screwed over by flaky bitches, you’re reliable in a mind-numbingly dull kind of way, you’re way too vanilla to be dragging home any conquests overnight and way too passive to get annoyed at the ones I drag home, there’s zero chance of us ever wanting to bang each other and make things ridiculously awkward like what happened with roommate number two, you look clean, my apartment isn’t too far from campus so it won’t be a hassle for you, you won’t have to worry about being paired with some dickhead homophobic roommate, and… should I keep going?”

“Um,” he said, “no, I think I’ve got the picture.”

The weird thing was, hearing it all spelled out for him like that… it almost sounded reasonable.

She stared at him expectantly, waiting for an answer.

“Can I think about it?” he said.

“Fine,” she said. “But you’ve got two weeks. Or until my temporary insanity wears off, whatever.”

\--

He called Tina to see what she thought.

“Am I crazy for considering this?” he asked.

“You might be,” she said. “But… I don’t know. Santana’s not so bad. Well, not all of the time, anyway. And maybe New York has mellowed her out.”

Blaine thought about Santana’s fork-wielding threat to Sebastian. Possibly deserved, but still. Intense.

Yeah, whatever New York had done to Santana, he didn’t think “mellow” was the right word.

After talking to Tina, he dialed Kurt’s number and asked him the same question.

“That is completely insane,” Kurt said without hesitation.

Blaine sighed into the phone. “So I shouldn’t do it.”

“Well… I’d say it’s a risk. I mean, it’s _Santana_. But you know what they say. High risk, high reward. So. It’s up to you.”

\--

It was definitely crazy. Certifiable.

“I’ll do it,” he said.

“Ugh, finally,” Santana said, rolling her eyes. He could tell without seeing them. “I’ll email you the details or whatever. Just make sure you have the deposit.”

She hung up before he could say anything else.

\--

Waking up in his room on that last day felt strange. The registration papers from NYU were soft at the edges from him reading them so many times and the mere thought of the city— living there— made him feel all fluttery on the inside. It was just that, at the same time, he couldn't believe that tomorrow morning he wouldn't be waking up to these dark green walls.

He stood in the doorway, unwilling to close the room just yet.

Behind Blaine, his dad cleared his throat.

“Is there anything you need?” he asked.

The words were so abrupt, so unprecedented, that it took Blaine a moment to parse them. Even after he understood the question, he didn’t know how to answer it. His father had never once asked him that before.

Maybe there had been a time for pretending to understand, for making peace, but that time had passed. And it wasn’t okay, exactly, but it was how things were, and he’d have to learn to live with that. When he thought about his father there was this stifled longing, so barely-there he could forget about it most of the time—sort of like the scar from Sadie Hawkins, hidden under hair and old enough that he couldn’t feel it anymore, not even when he ran his fingers over his scalp in search of it. But he knew it was still there regardless, a bit of bone missing under the scar tissue, a jagged discolored line. He was healed, but not unscathed. It had changed him.

This was the same thing. He’d probably always wish for things to be different, but he couldn’t keep hoping against hope that his dad would ever understand, and he couldn’t build his life around the ways he’d been wronged. Now it was time to move on, cut his losses, let go.

It was time.

\--

His car was packed with everything he planned to bring. It was a weird thing, sorting through your earthly possessions and trying to figure out what was worth taking along, what was worth leaving behind to gather dust. But in the end Blaine realized there wasn’t a lot he wanted to bring with him.

The shoebox—the one full of memories with Kurt— stayed in the closet, safely tucked away. Except for the scarf. He brought that, because… well, because. It was a nice scarf.

Ten hours. That was how long it would take to drive to New York, though maybe a little longer, depending on traffic. He plugged in his iPod, tapped on the road trip playlist he’d carefully crafted, and sang along to every song, progressively louder. By the time he passed the Lima city limits, he was belting at the top of his lungs.

He pulled over at a rest stop in Pennsylvania to use the bathroom and eat the sandwich his mom had packed for him—funny how she’d done that, when she’d never made any of his lunches growing up— and he took the opportunity to text Tina about his progress.

It was starting to get dark when he drove into New Jersey. Traffic on the Turnpike was a nightmare, and he inched through the line for toll booth, digging around a cup holder for spare change. To distract himself, he switched over to his Katy Perry playlist and sang along.

When the sign for the Holland tunnel appeared, he thought he might throw up, and the feeling in his chest got tighter and tighter as he made his way through the agonizingly slow stop-and-start crawl of traffic. But then he was on the other side. And just like that, the feeling kind of exploded out of him in a burst of breathless, bubbling laughter, because he was pretty much there. 

Manhattan.

He’d made it.


	4. Chapter 4

Santana had been right about New York; there was no way of knowing what it’d be like until he was actually there.

The first week was a long, tiring blur. By the end of it Blaine felt exhausted but accomplished: he’d hauled in all his boxes and bags, sold his now-useless-and-burdensome car off Craigslist and taken care of the paperwork, made a few visits to the bodega around the corner to stock up on necessities, acquired a monthly MetroCard pass, and managed to survive living with Santana, which in itself was a pretty notable feat.

Except when he stopped to actually, like, breathe for the first time in days, he realized it didn’t really look like he’d gotten much done at all. Surviving Santana wasn’t so impressive when she wasn’t even there most of the time—every day she slept in late, left in the early afternoon to do god knows what, came back to shower and get ready to sing at April’s place, The Jupiter Lounge, and didn’t come home until Blaine had already fallen asleep. So there wasn’t a lot of face time to endure there, really; their longest conversation was her sniping at him for keeping twice as much hair product as she did in the bathroom. He’d walked around the neighborhood a little, enough to locate the grocery and the Laundromat and somewhere to pick up coffee, but he hadn’t even ventured on the subway once yet, so it didn’t feel like he’d seen much of anything. All of his things were in his room, except he hadn’t unpacked much, if only because there was no room for most of it.

It was all a little overwhelming, and he wasn’t sure where to start.

He called Kurt and said, “So I have a problem.”

It was the third time they’d spoken on the phone since Blaine had arrived—between Kurt’s ridiculous schedule and Blaine being knee deep in moving his entire life several states over, there hadn’t been time yet to meet up face-to-face.

“Uh oh,” Kurt said. “That sounds ominous. Should I be sitting down for this?”

“I promise it’s not that serious,” Blaine assured him. Compared to previous life crises he’d come crawling to Kurt with, this one ranked pretty low on the severity scale. “I just have too many things and not enough closet space. Is there any chance you’d be willing to come over and help me unpack?”

“You just so happen to be speaking to an organizational expert. I suppose I could lend my skills for an afternoon.”

So Kurt came over early on Saturday, the first time he’d stepped foot in the apartment. When Blaine undid the bolt, opened the door, and saw Kurt standing there with a grin, his stomach did a happy kind of somersault. Kurt stepped forward to hug him; it was only a tiny bit awkward.

“Thanks for coming,” Blaine said as they pulled apart.

His hands were still resting over Kurt’s ribcage, and he found he was in no hurry to remove them. Kurt’s physical presence was solid, reassuring. Already he was breathing a little easier.

“Are you kidding?” Kurt said. “I’ve been _dying_ to see where Santana Lopez lives. I’m only sorry it took me this long.” He lifted the strap of his messenger bag over his head and set it down on the floor. “All right, now let’s take a look at this bedroom of yours.”

In another time, that would’ve meant something else—and the implication seemed to dawn on Kurt at the same moment it did Blaine, because his face went pink and eyes a little wide.

“So we can get you unpacked, I mean,” he added hastily. Just in case Blaine might have gotten a different impression.

“Of course,” Blaine said, biting the inside of his cheek to stop from smiling, and led Kurt to the bedroom.

There were cardboard boxes stacked on top of each other, only a few torn open for essentials. Piled garbage bags full of clothes blocked the window to the fire escape. Blaine hadn’t figured out what to do about a bed frame yet, so there was just a mattress on the floor with his comforter spread out over it. It was a mess.

Kurt surveyed the damage with an assessing look in his eye, stretched his arms in front of himself with fingers interlaced and rolled his shoulders, like he was warming up. “All right, I can work with this.”

And he did—they both did—for the next three hours, sorting through every box, separating clothes and shoes into piles, filling up the tiny closet (and since Kurt was a master at maximizing space, it fit a lot more of Blaine’s wardrobe than he thought it would), arranging everything in order. At the end of it, the room looked ten times better, even if they were both ten times more worn out for it.

“You’re still going to need a dresser,” Kurt told him, “and maybe a trunk or something. But at least it doesn’t look like the aftermath of a tornado anymore.”

They were sitting on stools at the kitchen island drinking ice water. Kurt had already expressed his jealousy over the fact that there was an actual kitchen in this apartment—apparently his and Rachel’s left no room for his regular culinary experiments, and it was one of the few things he missed about Lima.

“It looks fantastic,” Blaine said. “Thanks to you. You are a lifesaver.”

Kurt scoffed in that way he did where he was trying to come across as self-deprecating but was secretly far too pleased with himself.

“I do what I can,” he said airily.

Blaine hopped off the stool and walked around to the refrigerator. “Do you want something to eat?” he said, opening the freezer and peering inside. “I don’t have much—mostly just a lot of those frozen meal things. There’s a fettucini alfredo one leftover if you’d like. I’d offer to buy you lunch, but I don’t really know what’s good around here yet.”

“Okay, that is just shameful,” Kurt said. “I think it’s time you’ve been given the Kurt Hummel tour.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that. You already helped me with my room, I’m sure you have better things to do—”

“Please, Blaine. What could possibly be better than an opportunity to flaunt my New Yorker expertise and harangue you with all of my superior opinions on the local establishments? And you can buy me lunch, too.”

Well. When put that way, it did sound like something Kurt would find enjoyable.

\--

Kurt walked like a New Yorker: surefooted and with purpose, pointing out landmarks while keeping up his brisk pace. He had a favorite coffee shop and a favorite bagel stand and a favorite book store and a favorite everything. This neighborhood was _his_ , and Blaine marveled a little at how well he knew his way around.

They stopped for falafels at a tiny place on St. Mark’s near the corner of 2nd Avenue—Blaine’s treat—and squeezed into a table near the door. Kurt talked about his internship, which mostly entailed being the gopher for a local theater company, making script copies and going on coffee runs and assisting with the summer productions, but he also got to sit in on development meetings for the fall lineup, and he said it was teaching him a lot about what it’d be like to pitch one of his own works someday.

“Like Pip Pip Hooray?” Blaine said, and grinned at the memory of a summer that felt like so long ago now, a lifetime, really, when Kurt had obsessively tracked celebrity blogs and purchased a ridiculous amount of those glossy tabloids at grocery checkouts just to keep his ever-evolving script up-to-date.

Kurt covered his laugh with a napkin. “Oh god, don’t remind me. I was so completely convinced that was going to be a timeless, generation-defining masterpiece for the ages.”

“I don’t know, I thought it was pretty inspired. I still remember all the lyrics to Pippa’s Got A Gun.”

Blaine started to softly sing the opening verses until Kurt squeaked in horror and threw a plastic spoon at him. It bounced off his chest, and Blaine’s singing dissolved into helpless giggles. That set Kurt off, and in another minute they both had their heads bent down on the tabletop, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

It struck Blaine then, looking across the table at Kurt— who had his face scrunched up as he fought to keep his laughter at bay— how so much had changed and yet some things hadn’t at all. How even here, hundreds of miles away from Lima, years from the boys they’d been when they first met on that Dalton staircase, they were still the same, together. They were still them.

If time and distance and growth and everything that had happened couldn’t change that, nothing could.

\--

Since Kurt couldn’t be his personal tour guide all the time due to his own schedule and because Blaine’s classes wouldn’t start up for a few weeks, he decided to be braver about venturing out on his own. He made a list of all the places in New York he’d always wanted to go and went. 

He learned why Kurt had told him to avoid Times Square—he wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it was overcrowded and overrun with tourists and street vendors, and there wasn’t really anything to see there except a lot (a _lot_ ) of people and billboards and the same chain restaurants you could find in the Midwest. Walking down Broadway, though, past the theaters and marquees was a bit of a thrill. The first time crossing the Brooklyn Bridge by foot was another—gazing out at the skyline, he had that thought of _I-can’t-believe-I’m-seeing-this_ followed immediately by _I-can’t-believe-I-*live*-here_ , and he snapped a few pictures, glad he was alone so no one could rib him about looking like such a tourist.

In two days he managed to hit up the Empire State Building (well, from the street view; he didn’t really want to shell out the money to go to the top), Rockefeller Center (he had this elaborate fantasy about bumping into Tina Fey there and the two of them immediately bonding and grabbing hot dogs together, but it didn’t happen), The Strand (eighteen miles worth of books, and he couldn’t resist picking up a few even though he had no space for them in the apartment), cut through Central Park (pretty and green) on his way to the Met (he only made it through two floors and made a mental note to revisit later), and finished it off with the Statue of Liberty (via the Staten Island Ferry).

It was pretty much a tourist’s wet dream, but he figured at least now he could say he’d done it all, and it was more or less out of his system.

Blaine wasn’t freaked out about getting lost on the subway anymore (though he’d quickly learned that eye contact was best avoided, since his fellow passengers took it more as a sign of hostility than a friendly overture), but he took to walking whenever he could. It was a better way to make little discoveries in the neighborhood, like the cemetery tucked behind wrought-iron gates on 2nd Avenue and the street murals near Tompkins Square Park.

That was how he stumbled upon the farmers market on Avenue C; he bought a bag of peaches, ate three of them on the walk home, and when he got to the apartment Santana was lying on the couch in jersey shorts and a tank top, watching an old Top Model marathon.

“Ooh, is this season one?” he said, peeking at the television.

Santana didn’t divert her gaze from the screen. “Don’t just stand there, Frodo. If you want to watch, sit down and shut up.”

An invitation to stay? Well, that was new.

He perched at the end of the couch where her legs had left about two feet of space and settled back to watch. As soon as he did, Santana reached over and snatched a peach from his bag, bit into it. Oh. So that was why she hadn’t tried to banish him to his room at first sight.

“You’re home early,” he remarked.

“Yeah, my last client canceled,” she said, and he cut his eyes over at her.

“Client?” So was that where she went during the day? Some kind of second job?

She looked at him and then immediately away, and if Blaine didn’t know any better, he’d swear she was blushing.

“It’s none of your business,” she snapped.

He didn’t pry further, instead turned his attention to the tv.

“I always thought Elyse was robbed,” he said, hoping that maybe by changing the subject she wouldn’t still look like she wanted to rip his face off.

“Elyse? No way. That girl couldn’t smize to save her life. It so should’ve been Shannon,” Santana said.

Blaine looked at the girl on the screen—tall, leggy, blond—and thought Santana must have a type. 

At least they both agreed Robin had stuck around way too long and that Adrianne shouldn’t have won. It was the most amicable conversation they’d ever held. Maybe because when Santana was directing all her ire at Tyra Banks, there was none left over to direct at him.

A few hours later the marathon ended, and Blaine went to take a shower, and by the time he came back out Santana was gone—probably off to Jupiter. He didn’t see her again until the next day, dressed in denim cutoffs with her hair scraped back in a ponytail, carrying her purse and a small brown paper bag before shooting out the door to do… whatever it was she did during the early afternoon.

And seriously, what was _that_ about?

\--

“I don’t how how to say this, but I think Santana might be a drug dealer.”

Okay, so maybe Blaine did know how to say it.

Kurt didn’t even look up from digging around his tofu scramble. “Uh huh.”

They were at Birdie’s having breakfast with Rachel, since her shift didn’t start for another half hour.

Rachel, at least, took this with less skepticism. “What makes you think that?”

“She has a job during the day. Something with ‘clients.’ But she won’t tell me what it is,” he explained.

“And so your mind immediately jumped to ‘drug dealer’?” Kurt said.

“Well it’s weird, isn’t it? Why else would she be so cagey about it?”

“Because she’s Santana?”

“Maybe she’s a hooker,” Rachel offered.

Kurt shot her a look. “Rachel.”

“Oh, sorry. ‘Female escort.’” Rachel accompanied the words with finger quotes. “Is that the politically correct term?”

“That’s not what I was _Rachel_ -ing you about,” Kurt said.

“Look, I’m not judging, I’m only saying— Santana is a very sexually liberated individual, and as someone with one semester of Intro to Women’s Studies under her belt I realize some prominent feminist voices even view sex work as a positive, empowering—”

Kurt rolled his eyes to the ceiling and held up his fork, looking for all in the world like he was barely refraining from stabbing Rachel with it. “Please stop talking.”

“I don’t think she’s doing _that_ ,” Blaine said. “It’s just… something fishy is going on. Yesterday she left with a paper bag. So I think… maybe… it might be drugs.”

Kurt set down his fork, took a breath as if striving for patience, and looked Blaine straight on.

“Blaine,” he said, “do you hear the words coming out of your mouth?”

“Mostly?” All right, his theory did sound a little… flimsy spoken out loud.

“This is Santana we’re talking about,” Kurt reminded him. “She bit your head off when you asked because that is what she does. She just doesn’t like sharing, for whatever reason. We didn’t even know she was living in the city at all for months. Don’t worry about it; it’s probably nothing.”

Kurt was probably right, and it wasn’t like Blaine didn’t know how to mind his own business, so he put it out of his head. But that night he was in the middle of a phone call with Tina when another call beeped in; he pulled the cell back far enough to see it was Rachel.

“Go ahead and take it,” Tina said. “I’m supposed to be on my way to Sugar’s for a girls night anyway. We’ll talk later.”

So he said goodbye and switched over to Rachel. “Hello?”

“I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier, about Santana running a drug trade,” she said without preamble.

He squeezed his eyes shut. “Rachel, we shouldn’t be talking about this—”

“Oh! Right, of course. The government could be tapping in on this call and put us on some No Fly list. In that case, we’ll talk in code,” she said. “Anyway, I’ve been thinking about what you said, about Santana… running a flower delivery service. You know, you really need to get to the bottom of this, Blaine. This could have serious consequences for you if she’s selling illegal… peonies. I could help you out if you like.”

“Help me out?” he said warily.

And that was how Rachel talked him into spying with her on Santana to see where she went every day.

The next morning he woke up and tried to act natural—poured himself some cereal, plunked down on one of the stools, and as usual Santana came out of her room and went straight to the refrigerator.

She took out the almost empty orange juice carton and shook it. “Your turn to buy,” she said over her shoulder.

“Okay,” he said, then looked down into his bowl, trying for casual. “You going out?”

Santana shot him a sharp, calculating look, like maybe she’d detected something in his tone, before shutting the refrigerator. “Whatever. I wanted a bagel anyway.”

She swept out the door, closing it hard enough to rattle, and he listened to the sound of her footsteps thudding down the stairs. 

A minute later Blaine’s phone rang.

“The eagle has landed,” Rachel hissed.

“What are you talking about?”

“Santana,” she said, at normal volume now and with an edge of exasperation. “Santana left. If you don’t come right now, we’re going to lose her.”

He shoved on his shoes and hurried down the stairs, looked out from the stoop and saw Rachel half-hidden behind a streetlamp. She had on a beige trench coat, her hair pulled back in a bun, oversized sunglasses perched on her nose, a pair of binoculars dangling around her neck, and her cell phone in hand.

“Very stealthy,” he commented as he walked up to her. “Not conspicuous at all.”

“Thank you,” she said, either unaware of or choosing to ignore the sarcasm. She grabbed his wrist and started dragging him down the sidewalk. “She’s already got a half block lead on us. We have to get a move on.”

They trailed Santana down 7th, watched as she turned on to 1st, walked another half block, and then stopped at a bagel stand.

“Maybe that’s her first customer,” Rachel whispered to him. They were crouched behind a tree, out of the path of sidewalk traffic.

“Maybe she’s just hungry,” Blaine countered as Santana passed over a few bills.

“I can read lips,” Rachel said. She squinted in concentration. “She’s either saying ‘keep the change’ or ‘free the crazies.’ I can’t be certain from this angle.”

“Free the crazies? Why would she be saying that?”

“I don’t know! Why would she be telling him to keep the change? She can’t be affording to throw money everywhere! _Unless_ she’s secretly making big bucks on the side peddling marijuana.”

“This is stupid,” Blaine said. They were hiding out behind a tree and Rachel had her binoculars up to her eyes and this was really, really stupid. “We should just go, it doesn’t matter—”

“Blaine, you can’t back out now! Not when we’re so close! I know you’re dying to know what she’s up to,” she said. “This is important, and—oh, crap, she’s leaving. Let’s go, let’s go—”

Sure enough, Santana was on the move again, and Blaine reluctantly allowed Rachel to pull him behind her, following. It was another block, and then suddenly Santana crossed the street. Rachel started to follow, but Blaine held her back.

“Wait,” he said.

Santana stopped in front of a big brownstone, reached into her purse and withdrew that same small paper brown bag. 

“Oh my god,” Rachel said, stunned. “That is definitely marijuana!” She whirled to face Blaine and removed her sunglasses with a dramatic flourish. “We have to confront her—”

“No, not yet,” he said. “Just… hold on. Let’s see what she does first.”

They watched as Santana pushed some intercom button, said a few words, then stood there with her arms crossed over her chest, impatiently waiting. The door buzzed and she disappeared inside.

Minutes passed. In the time it took for her to come back out, Rachel had gone from theorizing on how Santana had fallen into a drug trafficking ring to complaining about one of the cooks at Birdie’s who always showed up stoned to propositioning Blaine about going to see The Book of Mormon next weekend, which—okay, he was actually interested in that, though did she think they could get rush tickets that weren’t all the way back in the rear mezzanine or—

And then the door opened, and out came Santana.

Not alone.

She had two little yappy dogs and a big Labrador on leashes, tangling around her legs as she made her way down the steps to the sidewalk.

Before Blaine could make the decision to approach her or to turn tail, Rachel made it for him, snatching his hand and yanking him with her across the street.

“You’re not a drug dealer!” Rachel exclaimed as she skipped up to Santana, shaking her fists in the air in a celebratory kind of way. “Yay!”

Santana whipped around, tangling herself even more in the leashes, and gave them a what-the-FUCK kind of look. It was followed by, “What the FUCK are you talking about? Did you two _follow_ me here?”

Ah, and so there it was, Santana’s patented killer glare. Blaine had not missed it.

“Oh, see, I can explain,” Rachel said. “We only did it because Blaine was worried when you wouldn’t tell him about your second job, and he thought maybe you were possibly dealing drugs on the side, which in hindsight is pretty ridiculous of a conclusion for him to jump to when it was based on such circumstantial evidence, but it doesn’t matter anyway because you’re _not_ , you’re just… a dog walker? Except… what’s in the bag, then?”

She looked at Santana curiously. Santana looked at them both murderously. Blaine looked down at the sidewalk.

“Yeah, fine, so I walk dogs, okay? Whatever, it’s not a big deal,” Santana said. “And the _bag_ has dog treats in it. Nothing you can get high off of. Jesus.”

“You don’t have to be embarrassed,” Rachel said. “It’s a perfectly respectable avenue of employment, and I for one—” Her voice broke off as she caught sight of the little Yorkie jumping at her feet for attention. “Oh my god, you are the _cutest!_ Why, yes you are! C’mere, c’mere!” 

She knelt to the sidewalk to scratch the puppy behind its ears, making all kinds of loud cooing noises, and now only Blaine was in the line of Santana’s glare.

“So tell me, is it that Berry’s crazy is contagious, or did the fumes from all that nasty gel finally get to your head and cause some serious brain damage?” she snapped.

“Sorry,” he said, sheepish, and stuck his hands in his pockets. “It was really, really dumb. I should’ve trusted you. I’m sorry.”

She snorted and rolled her eyes. “And here I thought I finally had a roommate who wasn’t Looney Toons. Figures.”

“Please don’t kick me out,” he said quickly. Oh crap, he hadn’t even considered she might do that. “I’ll—I’ll make it up to you.”

“How?” she said, skeptical but… interested.

He swallowed. “Um… anything you want. Really.”

Her eyebrows went up, and she smirked at him then, which was either a good sign or a bad one, Blaine wasn’t sure which.

Santana’s smirking always made him nervous.

\--

So that was how she roped him into helping with her dog walking business.

With two people it allowed Santana to double her client base, meaning double the cash, which all went into her pocket since she wasn’t paying Blaine. Which was fine, actually, because it wasn’t like he knew anyone else in this city aside from Kurt and Rachel and it gave him something to do, so.

He was doing that thing where he couldn’t stop himself from apologizing. “I’m sorry, it was a terrible assumption to make. I guess people will believe stupid things sometimes.”

“Whatever,” she said, handing over one of the little plastic bags—she’d given him the honor of cleanup duty. “And yeah, you’re right. Like that time junior year when everyone was convinced your boy toy was boning Sam Evans.”

“Yeah, I can see—wait, what?”

Blaine nearly walked into a tree.

Santana just laughed.

\--

Classes would be starting up soon, and Blaine was beginning to feel like there was a rhythm to his life here in New York.

Walking the dogs with Santana. Meeting up every day with Kurt at that coffee place he loved, the one on the corner of 2nd and St. Mark’s halfway between their apartments, after Kurt got out of work. Sunday morning breakfasts at Birdie’s with him and Rachel, which were becoming a weekly thing. Skypeing with Tina at least twice a week and plenty of texts and emails shared in the in-between. Laundry on Tuesday nights, since it was easier to do it in small loads, and watching So You Think You Can Dance at Kurt and Rachel’s on Wednesdays and Thursdays.

Santana said she was looking forward to fall because the return of all those college girls would mean the end of her “dry spell.” Blaine didn’t know what she meant by that until one night he woke up at three in the morning to the sound of loud moans. For a bewildering minute he thought maybe Santana was sick or something, but as he started to sit up in bed, he realized it was two voices, and—oh. She hadn’t been kidding, then, in that first conversation about her and her conquests.

That happened a few times. The girls always left alone, while Santana was still sleeping. Sometimes Blaine made them breakfast before they went. Sometimes they couldn’t get out fast enough.

None of them were blond.

She never invited him to see her sing at Jupiter, but one night he went anyway. He hung in the back with a glass of water, playing with the lime on the rim and trying to blend in. Everyone else was sitting at the bar or at tables, chattering away, or knocking balls around on the pool tables.

The stage upfront was dark except for two spotlights, and all that stood there was a mic stand and a piano. When Santana stepped out—dressed in a slinky red dress, her hair smooth and straight and down to her shoulders—there was a bit of a rumbling amongst the bar-goers, a few catcalls, and she just laughed and blew a little kiss.

“All right, all right,” she said, slipping the mic free from the stand, “my name’s Santana Lopez, and you better damn well remember it because you’ll be hearing it everywhere someday. Don’t walk out in the middle of my set, because that shit’s annoying, and even though it’s dark I can see you, and you best believe I will remember your face, and if I ever see you on the street… it won’t be pretty.”

She threw in a playful wink there, and a few people laughed, though Blaine knew her well enough to know she probably meant every word behind that threat.

“Not that it matters, because you’re all gonna want to stick around once you hear me,” she continued. “Now I think that’s enough of an intro. Let’s get it started.”

With a flick of her hand to the piano player, she started in on an Amy Winehouse classic, and Blaine leaned against the bar counter on one elbow and just watched, appreciating. It was the first time he’d seen live music in a while, especially as a spectator and not a performer, and that warm feeling of watching real talent spread through his chest— admiration and awe and a sort of sense of camaraderie— but at the same time there was an ache, a little tug of something like envy. Because that wasn’t going to be his life anymore. And he was going to miss it. Already did.

“She’s quite the firecracker, huh?” a voice next to him said.

“She really is.” He nodded without taking his eyes off the stage, then finally glanced over—and immediately did a double take. “You’re April Rhodes,” he said, dumbly.

“The one and only,” she said, flashing a bright smile before whistling for the bartender. She waited until there was a whiskey sour in her hands before she looked at him again. “And who might you be, Delicious?”

April was pressed all right up against the counter next to him, her breasts pushed up and together. Blaine averted his eyes and took a long drink of water.

“Blaine Anderson,” he introduced. “I’m actually living with Santana.”

“Oh, yeah! She mentioned you. The one who’s gayer than a Maypole in July.”

He tilted his head to the side, not quite sure how to take that.

“Well, you ever need anything, you just come to Auntie April. You’re one of Will’s kids, I’ll take care of ya,” she said. She downed the rest of her drink in one gulp, sucked a bit on the straw, and gave his arm a squeeze. “You have a good night, sweetie. Don’t do anything I would do!”

She let out a startlingly loud cackle at her own joke, slapped an open palm on the bar top.

“Thanks,” he said, but she was already whisking away.

After Santana’s set—mostly covers, though one or two originals thrown in the mix as well—he went to meet her as she came off the stage. Her face twisted a little when she saw him there, but she couldn’t have been too mad about it because she didn’t, like, tell him to go fuck himself or anything.

“You were fantastic,” he said, and she just rolled her eyes.

“Uh, _yeah_. I always am.” She did a haughty little shrug that flicked her hair back behind her shoulders, then rubbed the side of her face. “I’m also fucking exhausted. Let’s get out of here.”

The implied “us” in that demand took him by surprise, but he obeyed, following her out the door. They walked back to the apartment in silence, but instead of going straight inside, Santana sank down on the front stoop. Blaine hovered awkwardly for a moment, not sure whether to stay or keep going.

“Stop being such an awkward turtle and sit down already,” she said, extracting a cigarette pack from her purse and shaking one loose. She eyed him warily. “Unless you’re going to give me a lecture on this, Mom.”

He lowered himself onto the step beside her. “No lecture,” he promised.

Blaine really wasn’t in the position to give advice these days. Even if smoking was a gross, potentially dangerous habit, especially for a singer.

For a minute they just sat there, staring out at the street, watching the people and cars pass by.

“You know, tonight, watching you… I was a little jealous,” he admitted. Something sour crept into his throat.

She looked at him with raised eyebrows and said, “Why, because I’m freaking amazing? That’s only natural.”

“Well, partly that,” he said, and smiled at the gloating look her face took on. “But also because… you’re getting to do that, every night. You’ll probably land a record deal within a year, and I’ll be…”

“You’ll be off being College Boy,” she said. “What, is that not good enough anymore?”

“No. I mean—I don’t know. College hasn’t officially started yet, so.” He shrugged. “I think I made the right choice. I hope I did.”

Santana took a long last drag off her cigarette, blew out smoke. “You’d probably feel better if you just got laid,” she said.

He made an amused sound in the back of his throat. “Is that what works for you?”

“Sure does.” She stubbed the last embers on the concrete and flicked the butt away, shuddering a little. “Okay, and now that I have that visual of you in my head, I need to go take, like, ten showers.”

\--

Getting laid was pretty much the last thing on his mind.

Orientation week came, and at the end of it his head felt overstuffed with information. But he was registered for all his classes and had a bag packed full of flyers and information sheets and notes from all the lectures he’d had to endure, so he was prepared. Sort of.

He organized all the papers on the desk in his bedroom—yes, he had a desk now, and a dresser, thanks to Kurt taking him to this secondhand place in Brooklyn, though his mattress still lacked a bedframe—and called Tina.

“How’d it go?” she asked.

“Fine,” he said, swiveling his desk chair slowly from side to side, looking up at the ceiling. His head wasn’t spinning so much, now. “It’s just… a lot. What about you? How are the dorms?”

“Tiny. But my roommate is pretty nice. I think we’ll get along. She’s obsessed with World of Warcraft, so she spends most of her time glued to her computer anyway,” she said. “And the theater department is great. I’ve already met a lot of awesome people.”

“Cross your fingers it’s the same for me and I make some new friends before Kurt and Rachel get sick of me.”

“They wouldn’t get sick of you,” she said, and then paused. “So you’re spending a lot of time with Kurt?”

“When I can. It’ll be harder now that we both have classes.”

“Hmm.”

“What does that _hmm_ mean?”

“Does this mean you and Kurt…?”

She let her silence fill in the rest of that question; he quickly got the hint.

“Come on, Tina, you know better than that,” he said. 

Of course they weren’t. They were just friends. For real this time.

“You can’t blame me for asking! You’re single, he’s single, you’re in the same city,” she pointed out. “What exactly is stopping you?”

What was stopping him? Well, maybe Kurt didn’t have a boyfriend anymore, but that didn’t mean he wanted Blaine as one. And he’d meant what he’d told Terrence—he needed some time for himself without a relationship. It was for the best. There was a good balance right now, and he wasn’t about to rock it.

Blaine didn’t answer her. Instead he said, “Santana thinks I need to get laid.”

Tina just scoffed. “Doesn’t everyone?”

\--

Even between their class workloads, he and Kurt were able to continue meeting up once a day at that coffee place on St. Mark’s. Sometimes they swapped stories about their day; sometimes they barely spoke at all, instead just sitting in companionable silence and catching up on homework.

It was nice, though, to have that routine to look forward to. Sometimes it was the best part of Blaine’s day.

It didn’t take long into the semester for his social circle to expand, either; there were people in his classes, like the girl named Marnie who he sat next to in intro to sociology, and he even met some through Kurt and Rachel, who between the two of them seemed to know like a million people. 

That was why he was surprised when Kurt called to ask if Blaine would help him with an audition. It was for NYADA’s first fall production, a modernized musical reinterpretation of A Midsummer’s Night Dream; he was trying for the Puck role.

“Wouldn’t you rather have one of your NYADA friends help you?” Blaine said. “They’d probably know better what the casting directors are looking for.”

“But I trust you,” Kurt said simply, and how could Blaine say no to that?

\--

Seeing Kurt sing again was… really something.

Blaine couldn’t tell if all those classes with top notch professors had made Kurt even better, or if it’d just been so long he’d forgotten how great he was, but it was the best he could remember Kurt ever sounding.

Even sitting there on Kurt’s bed in his cramped room—the acoustics far from ideal, and no shining spotlight or grand stage— it was something special. Watching the way Kurt got lost inside his own talent, the way his voice rose and rose until it hit that place inside Blaine that made his heart twist with a good kind of hurt. He sat there enraptured, just soaking in the soaring vocals, let it wash over him.

After the last note, Kurt just stood there for a second, catching his breath, and then suddenly there was a dull banging against the wall.

Kurt rolled his eyes. “The neighbors don’t appreciate when Rachel and I rehearse in the apartment.”

“They should. You’re incredible, Kurt,” Blaine said, and he blinked a few times against the unexpected wetness that had sprung to his eyes. 

If his voice was rough, Kurt was kind enough not to comment on it. He couldn’t figure out why he was getting so emotional.

“So it was good?” Kurt said, sitting down next to him on the bed so the mattress dipped with his weight, and Blaine didn’t understand—couldn’t he hear himself? How could he not know? 

“Better than good,” Blaine said, firmly. “Try out of this world.”

Something in Kurt’s face changed, relaxing, the line of his shoulders softening as the tension was released.

“I just want it to be as good as it can be,” he said. “I spent last year stuck in nothing but the chorus roles. Which isn’t unusual, they never give freshmen the big parts, but if I could get a real part it’d be amazing.”

“Well, if you sing at your audition like you just did for me, you’re going to blow everyone out of the water,” Blaine said.

He was suddenly aware of how close they were sitting, the way their knees touched, the near proximity of Kurt’s face to his. This close, he found himself riveted by Kurt’s eyes; they weren’t the most piercing of blues or a magnificent shade of green or anything quite as poetic as that, but there was something about them—something immeasurable.

“You know, I forgot I have this study group thing—it’s at one of the libraries all the way over on campus, so I should get going,” he said, pushing off the bed and hastily snagging his satchel from the floor.

He was breathing a little too fast, his heart beating a little too hard.

“Oh. All right,” Kurt said, slightly confused, and stood. “Do you want me to walk you out?”

Blaine shook his head. “No, it’s fine. Good luck with the audition tomorrow. Call me after, okay?”

Kurt had barely responded with an affirmative before Blaine was letting himself out of the apartment, hurrying down the stairs and out the door.

The study group was a lie, but he couldn’t stay. If he stayed, he might do something stupid like kiss Kurt. Or tell Kurt he wanted to kiss him. Either way, it wouldn’t be good, and he just needed to leave.

\--

He didn’t want to go back to the apartment right away, so he walked around aimlessly for a while, plugged into his iPod, and swung by the Vietnamese place on 6th for some takeout.

Eventually he was tired of the walking and went back to the building. He trudged up the stairs, sat at his desk and checked his email (one from Tina, one from his mom, a few from the anthro mailing list), ate some spring rolls while going over a class reading, and he must’ve nodded off because the next thing he knew he was opening his eyes to the sound of some ear-splitting moans coming from the next room over.

Blaine rubbed his face, closed his laptop and collapsed on his mattress stomach-down, covered the top of his head with a pillow to block out the noise.

At least one of them was lucky in love.

Well, okay. For Santana it wasn’t love; just sex.

Still meant she was one-up on him, though.

\--

Kurt got the role, to Blaine’s complete and utter lack of shock.

“To the next big thing,” Blaine said, raising his coffee cup.

Kurt beamed back at him and lifted his own, clinked them together. It was then that Blaine noticed a phone number scribbled out in black marker.

“What’s that?” he asked, and Kurt’s brow furrowed, not understanding, so he gestured to the cup with one hand.

“Oh,” Kurt said, twisting it around in his palms. A faint smile touched his lips. “The barista did that. I didn’t even notice until I was halfway to the table.”

Blaine glanced over at the counter; the guy behind it was tall, lanky, with an artful trendy haircut.

“Are you going to call him?” he asked.

He took a long sip from his coffee, watching Kurt across the table. He wasn’t jealous. He wasn’t.

Okay, maybe a little.

“Oh, definitely not,” Kurt said, easily enough. “Go out with the guy who makes my coffee? No way. If it didn’t work out, I’d have to find a new coffee place, and I’m kind of attached to this one. Plus I’d lose out on the discounted pastries.” He pushed the plate of lemon poppy seed scones toward Blaine. “Help yourself, by the way.”

“Thanks,” he said, taking one off the plate and hoping it didn’t make him too much of a jerk to be a little bit relieved.

\--

One day he was coming out of the subway stop at Astor Place when his phone rang. It was Santana, which was weird, because she pretty much never called him. Ever.

Blaine trotted up the station stairs to the street exit, ear to his phone. “Hey, what’s up?”

“I need a favor,” she said immediately.

Santana Lopez asking for a favor? And not even prefacing it with an insulting nickname? That was even weirder.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

He passed by a street performer jamming away on an acoustic guitar, stopped and backtracked, digging two ones from his wallet and dropping them into the empty guitar case. If Santana were here, she’d tell him to stop being such a pushover. But she wasn’t here. She was supposed to be getting ready for a performance at Jupiter.

“So my guy Reggie got mugged or stabbed or something and is in the hospital,” she said.

“Oh my god,” he said in alarm. He racked his brain for a second for that name—he was pretty sure Reggie was her accompanist. “That’s terrible!”

“I know, I’m totally fucked.”

“I meant for him,” he said, pointedly. “Is he okay?”

“What? Yeah, he’s fine, don’t worry about it,” she said. “I’m the one with the problem. You know how to play piano, right?”

Blaine slowed his pace, causing someone from behind to knock his shoulder hard as they hurried by with a glare. He flashed a belated apologetic look to their quickly receding back, and then said into the phone, “Yes?”

“How quickly do you think you could learn my set?”

He hesitated. “I don’t know, Santana—”

“Oh, come off it,” she said. “I know you don’t have plans because you’re a total loser who doesn’t do anything except your homework and watch Logo and moon over Kurt. Don’t tell me you don’t have the time.”

Now that sounded closer to the Santana he knew.

“I do not _moon_ over Kurt,” he said, a little snappishly. “This isn’t really how you court someone to do you a favor, Santana.”

“Look, you’ll get paid,” she replied, exasperated, and for Santana, it pretty much amounted to begging.

It was just too weird. And sort of disturbing.

“Fine, I’ll do it.”

“Good. And if you show up in a bow tie I’m going to strangle you with it.”

“ _Fine._ ”

\--

He showed up early to do a few run-throughs—Santana had dug out some of the sheet music that Reggie never needed to use—and by the time Jupiter opened for the evening crowd, he felt pretty comfortable with the material.

Playing in front of an audience again, even one this small, was… nice. It wasn’t the same since it wasn’t about him at all, all the spotlight was on Santana, and he wasn’t singing, of course. The last time he’d played piano onstage was during the piano recitals he’d had as a kid.

But it was still a stage. It was still performing. He’d forgotten how much he loved it, and it was nice to be reminded.

Afterward, Santana wandered to the bar and came back to him with a drink in hand.

“I shouldn’t,” he said.

“It’s just one. Take it,” she insisted, so he did. “Now come on. I’m going to kick your ass at pool.”

It was the closest to a thank you as Blaine was going to get. 

\--

Marnie—the girl from his sociology class—was determined to set him up with one of her friends.

“Seriously, you’ll love him,” she said. “I can totally see the two of you hitting it off.”

Blaine tucked his lecture notes into a folder, stood and shrugged his bag onto his shoulder. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” he said.

He’d never been on a blind date; he wasn’t sure he wanted to start now. And how well could Marnie really know him from just a few weeks of sitting next to him in one class?

But she was adamant. “Just one date,” she told him. “Can I give him your number? Or I can give you his. Please?”

He gave in because—well, it was college. And one date didn’t have to mean a relationship. This was what he was supposed to do. Experiment, date around, meet people. Hey, if nothing else, maybe he’d get a new friend out of the deal.

The guy’s name was Gordon. They texted back and forth a little bit—Gordon was an English major who lived in the dorms, and ironically a tragically terrible speller—before agreeing to meet up at this Mexican place Gordon liked. It was all the way over on the Upper West Side, a neighborhood Blaine wasn’t too familiar with, and he got a little mixed up on the subway on the way over and ended up showing up twenty minutes late, so it didn’t exactly get off to a great start.

Marnie had shown him a picture, so he knew who to look for: the tall skinny kid with long hair wearing slim-cut jeans, an oversized plaid shirt, and horn-rimmed glasses. Gordon was standing right outside the door.

“So sorry I’m late,” Blaine said by way of introduction, a little breathless from half-running the last block. “I got a little lost on the way. I don’t really know this neighborhood.”

Instead of reassuring him it was fine or cracking a joke about Blaine’s lack of navigational skills, Gordon just stared at him, his face blank.

“Whatever,” he finally said, turning to the door. “Let’s order.”

They stood in line in awkward silence, and then sat down with their food in awkward silence, and it was all just really awkward. Every time Blaine tried to ask Gordon something about himself—his major, what the dorms were like, how he knew Marnie—he got nothing but monotone, single word answers in response.

“So what do you for fun?” he asked, in a continuing valiant-yet-losing effort to salvage the conversation.

“I’m in a band,” Gordon said as he poked listlessly at his taco salad.

Everything about this guy was listless. How could he possibly be a performer?

Still, it was something. Music. Performing. Blaine could work with that.

“That’s awesome,” he said. “What kind of music do you play?”

“It’s sort of a fusion of post-punk, anti-folk chillwave,” Gordon explained, and it was the longest sentence Blaine had been able to pry out of him yet. “But we don’t really like labels.”

“I used to sing,” Blaine said, hoping this might stir some interest.

It did, momentarily at least, since Gordon actually made eye contact with him and looked marginally less bored. “Yeah?”

“I was in my high school show choir. We won the national championship,” he said. When Gordon’s expression didn’t change, he went on. “I also used to do these little musical shows for Six Flags. Embarrassing, I know, but it was a good experience.”

Gordon just stared at him. He looked less bored, but not in a good way. He looked kind of… appalled or something. At the very least, unimpressed.

Blaine cleared his throat. “So what’s the name of your band?”

Maybe it was better to keep the subject on Gordon instead.

“Welcome To Dead House,” he said.

“Cool,” Blaine said, and then realized something. “Wait, isn’t that the name of a kids’ book?”

“Uh, I don’t think so.”

“No, it definitely is,” he pushed on, because he remembered, now. “It’s from Goosebumps. R.L. Stine. My brother had that book. I read it like ten times when I was seven.”

Now Gordon dropped his fork altogether, and he was kind of glaring.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” he said, and abruptly got up from the table.

All right, so it wasn’t the best first date ever. But there was still time to turn it around, right?

\--

Fifteen minutes later when Gordon still hadn’t come back, Blaine revised that in his head: no, it wasn’t just not-the-best. It was the _worst_.

He got up and checked the restroom just in case Gordon was there or had gotten sick or something—for a second he convinced himself that was the case, it would explain the moodiness and disinterest, since hey, Blaine was a pretty good conversationalist and interesting to most people—but there was no sign of him.

He’d definitely been ditched.

When he got back to the table, his phone went off. Rachel.

“This is your fake emergency in-case-of-needed-bailout phone call, as requested,” she said when he answered.

Oh, right. Blaine had almost forgotten he’d asked her to call during the date just in case it went that badly. He hadn’t expected to be the one bailed on first.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said.

“Really?” Her voice ticked up with intrigue. “It’s going that well?”

“Not exactly,” he said, a little miserably. “I’ll explain to you later.”

\--

When he got back to the apartment, Santana was sat on the kitchen counter eating out of a pint of ice cream. All she had on was this really long t-shirt, slim like a lazy dress. Her long bare legs swung back and forth, heels banging lightly against the cabinets.

“I thought you had a date,” she said around the spoon in her mouth.

“I did,” he said. “Can I have some of that?”

She rolled her eyes but scooted over to make room, so he took it as a yes. He grabbed a spoon from the drawer and hopped up on the counter next to her. They ate in a silence that was not entirely uncomfortable.

“Aren’t you going to ask me how it went?” he said.

She scoffed. “Yeah, and then you can braid my hair and paint my nails because we’re totally best girlfriends.”

Blaine dug out a spoonful, a little sullenly; it was mint chocolate chip, his favorite.

“At least one of us had a good night,” he said, shooting her a knowing look.

She frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Your shirt’s on inside-out.”

“Oh.” She glanced downward, then looked back up with a smirk. “Pro-tip: if you ever get the chance to hook up with a yoga instructor? Take it. You would not _believe_ the things that girl could do with—”

“I don’t need the details,” he said, cutting her off, because he really didn’t need to hear that much about her sex life. It was bad enough having to listen to it through the walls. 

Blaine sighed deeply, and Santana rolled her eyes at him again.

“God, just spit it out already.”

“I thought you didn’t want to hear it.”

“I _don’t_ , but your pouting is even more obnoxious. So just say whatever it is. I can tell you’re dying to.”

“You’ll probably enjoy this story anyway,” he said, turning a little toward her. “My date pretended he had to use the bathroom and then just left me in the restaurant. Not even a half hour into it.”

Santana burst into laughter. And kept laughing. And didn’t stop.

After a good straight minute of that, Blaine snatched the ice cream from her hands and glared.

“You do realize I’m going to have to mock you about this until you die, right?” she got out between fits of laughter.

“I’m glad you find my pain and humiliation so hilarious,” he said, annoyed, and stuck another spoonful of mint chocolate chip in his mouth.

“Oh, lighten up,” she said. “Everyone has terrible date stories. Except for me. But that’s just the natural consequence of being so hot and irresistible; everybody wants up on this.”

“It was _mortifying_.” And yes, Santana was right, he was pouting. But seriously. Seriously! 

Santana swiped the ice cream back from him. “You’ll get over it,” she said, looking him in the eye, and it almost sounded earnest. As close to earnest as Santana ever got.

\--

The weekend before Kurt and Rachel’s musical debut, they threw a rooftop party. Since Kurt and Rachel’s building didn’t have an accessible rooftop, they held it at Blaine and Santana’s and invited a bunch of people. Even Santana came, only a little begrudgingly, and brought two bottles of wine with her.

“Thank you for hosting, Santana,” Rachel said to her. “You look lovely, by the way.”

Santana eyed her up and down before shrugging and saying, “Whatever, it’s fine. Congrats on the musical thing. And I guess you look pretty nice too. For you.”

The somewhat backhanded compliment rolled right off of Rachel, much to Blaine’s relief. He’d been a little worried about playing mediator between those two.

To his surprise Mike Chang showed up; Blaine hadn’t seen him since Lima. When Mike saw him, his face lit up and he immediately came over for a hug—not one of those bro-ish, safe-distance-quick-back-slap hugs, but a real one, and that was nice.

He had his new girlfriend with him—her name was Alice, and she was tall, model gorgeous, also in the dance program, Mike explained—and Blaine sort of wanted to hate her on principle, except he knew Tina would tell him that was the stupidest thing she’d ever heard, and besides that the girl was really nice and sweet.

It was cool to catch up with Mike, even though Blaine couldn’t help but keep an eye on Kurt, who stood on the other side of the roof, surrounded by his NYADA friends.

“—and the sequence with them escaping the exploding ship, that was awesome, right?”

Blaine blinked. “Huh?”

“In the movie,” Mike said, slowly.

Oh, right. They’d been chatting about the latest Tom Hardy, which Blaine definitely knew since his attention had been on this conversation, not on Kurt, who was leaning close to say something into the ear of some guy with purple hair and an eyebrow ring.

Mike smiled at him a little. “You seem a little distracted.”

“Sorry,” Blaine said. “Can we catch up more later? I haven’t gotten a chance to say hi to Kurt yet, and I want to get to him before he’s overrun with his many admirers.”

At Kurt’s name, Mike’s face took on a knowing look. “Of course, man.”

Blaine made his way over to Kurt, hung back a little until there was a break in the conversation and Kurt caught his eye.

“Blaine!” he said, a little loudly, and grabbed him in a hug.

Over Kurt’s shoulder, Blaine watched the trio of his NYADA friends exchange looks before ambling away. He squeezed Kurt back, drew away with a laugh.

“Enjoying your party, Mr. Next Big Thing?” he teased.

“More now that I’m talking to you,” Kurt said. “You’ve inadvertently rescued me from some very pretentious conversation regarding the current state of musical theatre.”

Blaine grinned. “Well, that’s what I’m here for.”

They stood near the edge of the roof with drinks and talked for a while—Kurt’s rehearsals had been going well, even though he was pretty sure he’d earned the ire of the costume designer for requesting too many adjustments, and his parents were going to be in town opening night, and would Blaine come out to dinner with them?

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to intrude,” he said, though the idea of being around the Hudson-Hummels was pretty appealing. He’d missed them, almost as much as he’d missed Kurt all of senior year.

“Please, they would _love_ to see you,” Kurt said. “Carole’s always asking about you.”

“Really? I’m just the old silly high school boyfriend.”

It was a joke, but there was a lump in his throat around the words, and Kurt cut him a sharp sideways look.

“You were never just that,” he said.

His eyes flickered over Blaine’s face, and Blaine caught his breath—there was no getting used to that, to the intensity of Kurt’s eyes, to that look he knew so well—

Somehow they’d inched a little closer.

“Blaine, I…” Kurt started, his voice low, barely above a whisper. It felt like a moment.

Suddenly Rachel bounded up to them, smiling, arms flailing a little. “Blaine! Kurt! Someone brought a microphone!” she exclaimed. “We should sing! What do you say? With Mike and Santana here, it’ll be just like a mini glee club reunion. I’m sure you can talk her into joining us, Blaine.”

“I don’t think anyone can talk Santana into anything,” he remarked.

“Tell her I’ll graciously allow her to trade off verses with me. It’ll sweeten the deal,” Rachel said, and she had them both by the hands, pulling them over away from the roof’s edge.

Blaine looked over at Kurt, who smiled back at him, but it was different now. Like a window had closed.

Whatever moment there’d been, it had passed.

\--

At the end of the night, it was just the four of them sitting at the picnic table, passing around the rapidly diminishing second bottle of wine, not even bothering with glasses.

“Santana, I forgot how exquisite your tone is,” Rachel said around the lip of the bottle. Her cheeks were rosy, and her eyes shining, and she was definitely a little tipsy. “I really want to see you sing sometime. Can I come see you sing?” 

“Sure,” Santana said amicably. Apparently wine mellowed her out. “You know, Berry, you’re all right.”

Kurt grinned over at Blaine, lowered his voice to conspiratorial levels and said, “Flattery is the way to Santana’s heart. Remember that.”

“Duly noted,” Blaine said back, gently reaching over and prying the bottle from Rachel’s hands. She’d thank him in the morning.

“We should do this every year. It should be our thing,” Rachel declared. “Tradition brings people together.”

Santana grabbed the bottle while Blaine was mid-drink—he almost choked when she yanked it away—and tossed back another gulp for herself before setting it down on the tabletop with a thud.

“No, I think that’s just the alcohol,” she said, but there was no venom behind it, and she was smiling, they all were, and it was—

It was really nice.

\--

Blaine thought dinner with Kurt’s parents might be awkward, but it surprisingly wasn’t at all. It was like nothing had changed; he fit right in at this table in some mid-scale sit-down restaurant just the same as he had around their kitchen table during all those Friday nights in high school.

Of course, it helped that Rachel came with them, since if Rachel Berry knew how to do anything it was fill a silence before it had a chance to turn awkward.

Most of the conversation was taken up by Kurt and Rachel talking about the musical—they were both overflowing with that excitable nervous energy Blaine remembered well, the good kind of fluttery nerves that came with any impending performance, and couldn’t stop gushing about every aspect. When they weren’t dominating the discussion, Mr. Hummel and Carole updated them on their lives back in Ohio: how the tire shop was doing, how D.C. was, what they’d heard from Finn about his own life (and Blaine was pretty sure he was the only one who caught the way Rachel almost imperceptibly flinched at every mention of Finn’s name).

When the attention turned to Blaine, he told them about his classes, about the apartment, about occasionally filling in as a pianist at Jupiter for Santana.

They both seemed pleased to see him, but Blaine couldn’t help but notice the way Mr. Hummel kept shooting him these _looks_ all throughout dinner. They weren’t hostile or anything, maybe closer to inquisitive, but it was somewhat unsettling all the same to look up over his plate from time to time to catch Mr. Hummel just _staring_ at him.

At the end of dinner when they got up to leave, Kurt automatically picked Blaine’s coat off the back of his chair and held it out, and Blaine automatically put his arms through it, smiled a thank you, and then turned his head back to see Mr. Hummel giving him that look again.

They went out to the street, and Mr. Hummel put a hand on his arm and said, “Hang on a sec,” in this low voice only Blaine could hear. Blaine swallowed hard and watched as Kurt, Rachel, and Carole began striding down the sidewalk, their arms all linked.

“Now, you gotta excuse me if I’m overstepping here,” Mr. Hummel said, and Blaine bit his lip to keep from smiling at the vague reminder of his own boundary-crossing he’d done as a clueless—well-intentioned and concerned, but nevertheless clueless—teenager. “But I gotta ask. You and Kurt, are you two… you know.”

Blaine knew he shouldn’t be caught off-guard by the question—it came up often enough, it seemed—but he still was. Kurt and Mr. Hummel were close; didn’t he think Kurt would have mentioned that if it were the case?

“We’re not,” he said. “We’re just friends.”

Mr. Hummel didn’t look entirely convinced. “You two don’t look at each other like friends do.”

“Well, that’s all we are. I can promise you that,” he said, and he was fighting a little to keep his patience, because this wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have with Kurt’s father of all people. Something else Mr. Hummel had said suddenly registered. “Wait, Kurt… looks at me?”

He looked ahead at Kurt, who had his head tossed back with laughter, walking down the street the way he always walked—like it was his own personal runway.

When he looked back to Mr. Hummel, Mr. Hummel just kind of smiled at him.

“It’s good to see you, kid,” he said, putting a warm hand on the back of Blaine’s neck. “Let’s catch up before those three take a detour to Fifth Avenue. My wallet’s weeping at the thought.”

\--

The musical was really great, which wasn’t a surprise since it was a production put on by the highest ranked musical arts school in the country. However, in Blaine’s not-so-humble opinion, Kurt was hands-down the show’s best highlight.

Kurt did a stunning job: he was limber and quick-footed in the dance numbers, clever with his line deliveries, and he gave a heartbreaking solo. Blaine held his breath through it all, wondering if everyone else was as amazed as he was—next to him Santana grabbed his arm so hard her nails dug into his skin, so he was pretty sure she felt the same.

The audience seemed to agree, since when curtain call came, Kurt got the first standing ovation. Blaine clapped so hard his hands hurt, watched as Kurt took a long, from-the-waist bow before the crowd, lingering just a little in the spotlight.

Backstage Kurt had more flowers than he could hold—Mr. Hummel and Carole had bought him this huge, ridiculous-sized bunch of roses, and Blaine had gotten him a more modest bouquet. When Blaine handed it over, Kurt was a little teary-eyed, and he crooked an arm around Blaine’s neck and brushed a kiss across his cheek.

Blaine had gotten a bouquet for Rachel, too, and she looked ready to cry when he brandished it for her. No one else had gotten her flowers.

“Thank you,” she said, a slight quiver in her voice, and looked over at Santana. “Both of you. It means a lot that you came.”

“You were wonderful. I’m sorry your dads missed it,” he said as she hugged him tightly.

He knew she had to be feeling a little down about that—especially since Kurt’s parents had been able to make it—and that on top of not getting the big role she’d wanted.

“Oh, it’s okay. I’m sure someone will post this on YouTube within the hour,” she said. “Besides, they promised they’d come to the next one.”

“And it’ll be better because you’ll be the lead then,” he said.

She smiled, brushed some hair out of her face. “Well, of course.”

He bent in close to her and said, “Personally I think you would’ve made a much better Hermia.”

“Seriously,” Santana said. “These people have their heads up their asses if they think that bitch is better than you.”

Rachel put a hand over her heart. “That is one of the sweetest things anyone has ever said to me.”

\--

So things were pretty good, all in all.

School was good—way different from high school, but he’d always been good at adapting, and Dalton had prepared him for this, a little. He had his daily coffee non-dates with Kurt, and weekly breakfasts at Birdie’s (Santana had even begun joining them for those, claiming she was only in it for the delicious hash browns), and occasionally playing for Santana at Jupiter. The distance had made his relationship with his parents a little easier since he didn’t have to see or talk to them every day; though there was the fact that even this early into the year, he was sort of already planning to just stay in New York over summer, and he wasn’t sure how they’d take that. But it’d be dealt with later. He missed Tina, but they talked plenty, and one of these days she was going to come out to visit.

The only thing not quite on track was his dating life. Everyone else seemed to have _something_ going on—Santana had her endless string of one night stands; Tina had met some guy—a Women’s Studies major, which was a big turn-on—and it wasn’t serious, but she seemed happy about it; Mike and Alice; Rachel had started namedropping an art major she’d met named Sawyer, though she claimed they were just friends. No one believed her, of course.

As for Kurt—well, Blaine didn’t know. They didn’t really talk about that. But Blaine couldn’t imagine he didn’t date around at least a little. If he wasn’t, it had to be by choice.

One night he was filling in for Reggie, and this guy came up to him afterward at the bar counter. A little older, but not much, early twenties.

“You can really sing,” the guy said.

Blaine turned to look at him. He was cute, and he had a nice smile. Dazzling, even.

“Thank you,” he said, smiling back. Santana had started letting him duet with her to Gnarls Barkley as a set closer; singing for the crowd was way better than just playing the piano.

The guy sat down at the bar next to him and introduced himself—his name was Nick—before offering to buy Blaine a drink.

“Can’t. I’m not legal,” Blaine said, holding up his ice water.

One of Nick’s eyebrows went up. “How not legal?”

“Uh, I’m eighteen. Almost nineteen.”

“Okay, good,” Nick said with blatant relief, “I was afraid for a second I was coming on to jailbait.”

Oh, so he was flirting then. Blaine had thought maybe there was a vibe, but he didn’t like assuming.

They sat and talked, Nick knocking back a few drinks while Blaine sipped on his water, and it wasn’t exactly a date, but it was something. And Nick certainly wasn’t Gordon—he knew how to hold a conversation, and he had a wicked sense of humor, and he looked like he actually showered regularly. Blaine didn’t think of himself as someone who had a specific type, but that was definitely a requirement.

After a while Nick glanced at his watch and said, “Ah, shit, I gotta head home.”

Blaine was surprised at how disappointed he felt. “So soon?”

“I’m all the way in Bushwick,” Nick explained. “Hey, you want to share a cab?”

“I usually just walk,” Blaine said. “I’m only a few blocks.”

“Let me take you there. My treat.”

So they left the bar and Nick hailed a cab, and Blaine told the driver his address, and as soon as he sat back in his seat, they pretty much started making out.

Nick’s mouth was warm with vodka, and one of his hands was running up and down the inside of Blaine’s thigh. Blaine’s whole body arched a little on instinct, breath catching, blood thrumming in his ears. It’d been too long since he’d been kissed like this. But it wasn’t the same as Kurt, or even Terrence—there was nothing behind it. Just the physical.

Too soon the cab pulled up next to his building.

“Can I come up?” Nick said against Blaine’s mouth. “Or you can come back to my place. Whatever.”

“I…” All that kissing had made Blaine a little dizzy, and it took him a second to collect his thoughts. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he finally said.

Kissing a near stranger was one thing; going to bed with one was something totally different.

Nick didn’t look too happy about that answer, but he didn’t make a fuss about it, either. “See you around, then, I guess.”

Blaine climbed out of the cab, legs a little wobbly, and leaned in enough to say, “Call me sometime if you like.”

“Sure,” Nick said, but he wasn’t looking at Blaine, focused instead on fixing his shirt buttons.

It wasn’t until the cab had pulled away that Blaine realized they hadn’t exchanged numbers.

\--

Upstairs Santana was stretched out on the couch, watching Real Housewives of Atlanta off the DVR. Blaine pushed her legs off to make room and flopped down beside her.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Blaine said. If she didn’t want to have this conversation, she’d have to get up and go to her bedroom or something, because he needed to talk to _somebody_ and she was there. “How do you have sex and be so… detached about it?”

“I dunno,” she said with a shrug, arranging her legs back across his lap, “you just do it.”

Santana seemed to actually be humoring him instead of biting his head off, and he turned to face her.

“I could’ve slept with someone tonight,” he said. “Part of me wanted to. The part that hasn’t had sex since—”

“Do not finish that sentence, Blanderson. Not unless you want to buy me the twenty gallons of Clorox it’ll take to scrub my brain clean.”

“Okay, okay, sorry. I just—I know some people can turn off the emotions and just… do it. But I can’t. Not like you can.” He winced a little at the way her eyes narrowed. “No offense.”

She sat up a little straighter, looking at him now.

“Look, it’s not like—I do know what love is, okay?” she said. She sounded a little frustrated—with him or with herself. Maybe both. “And this isn’t forever, it’s just for now. I’m nineteen. I don’t need attachments. I’ll want something more… serious or whatever, eventually, but I’m fine with this for now. I’m having fun.”

“I wasn’t judging you,” he said. “Sometimes I wish I could be like you.”

She smirked. “Everyone wishes they could be like me.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, well, some people are born awesome like me. Some people are born pathetic sappy romantics like you. Live with it.”

“It would just be nice if anyone still believed in romance,” he sighed.

“I don’t even get why you’re bothering dicking around anyway,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“It means you should get your head out of your ass already,” she said, and turned the volume up louder. “Now shut up, I want to see this bitchfight.”

\--

There was a flyer on the billboard outside his anthro class for one of the school’s male a capella groups. It caught his eye as he was on his way out of the building, and without thinking he unpinned it from the board and tucked it in his bag.

He knew now that NYADA wouldn’t have been right for him, and he really liked NYU so far, but singing at Jupiter had made him think more and more about performing and what it’d once meant to him—how big a part of his life it had been. He missed it.

Blaine wasn’t sure he wanted to commit to something like this, and maybe it wasn’t the answer… but it was a thought.

\--

Thanksgiving came, and none of them were going home for the holiday, so Kurt suggested—or, well, practically demanded—that he be allowed to cook them all dinner. In Blaine and Santana’s apartment, of course, since there was no room in his and Rachel’s place.

“God, why don’t you just get takeout?” Santana complained when Kurt and Rachel came through the door with their arms full of grocery bags. “Save us all the trouble.”

“Cooking is therapeutic,” Kurt said, handing off one of the bags to Blaine, who set it on the counter. “Don’t worry, Santana, you won’t have to lift a finger.”

“Someone else is going to have to serve the meal,” Rachel said. “I am fine with helping prepare, but I would like someone else to wait on me, since this is a holiday.”

“Fine,” Santana said, “but I demand a real fucking turkey. Not any of this vegan tofu substitute crap. You hear me?”

The next few hours were sort of chaotic, the three of them all working on different dishes while Santana lazed in the living room watching television. Kurt was in charge of the turkey, Blaine took over the sides, and Rachel was in charge of the pies. At the end of it the kitchen was a complete mess, but everything had turned out pretty okay, and Santana even helped them plate it all and carry it to the living room.

“We’re not praying before we eat or whatever, are we?” she said when they’d all sat down.

She and Kurt were on the couch, Blaine and Rachel on the floor. They all looked at each other.

“I’d rather not,” Kurt said.

“Yeah, I don’t think we need to,” Blaine agreed.

“I do think we should all say something we’re thankful for,” Rachel suggested. “Just to keep in spirit with the holiday.”

“The holiday is founded on genocide,” Kurt pointed out.

Rachel swatted his leg. “You know what I mean!”

“Fine,” Kurt said. “I am thankful for Santana having a kitchen that I could actually cook in.”

“I’m thankful for Bravo showing reruns of Tabatha all day,” Santana said. “Whoever is in charge of programming there loves me. Baddest bitch around.”

“Well,” Rachel said, “I am thankful to Santana and Blaine for being gracious hosts, to Kurt for allowing us to benefit from his excellent culinary expertise, and to NYADA for nurturing my talent like a baby bird that was already incredibly gifted from birth but is now preparing to take off and fly out of the nest to new heights.”

“That’s beautiful, Rachel,” Blaine said.

“Ugh, more like nauseating,” Santana grumbled.

Kurt kicked her in the shin. “Be nice,” he chided.

Rachel ignored them both. “What about you, Blaine?”

When he thought about it, there was a lot to be thankful for. And the biggest reasons were right here in this room.

“I’m thankful for New York,” he said after a moment. “And for all of you for being here.”

Everyone went quiet for a minute, looking around at each other, and Santana didn’t even throw out any catty comments, so he figured they probably all felt the same.

\--

Two nights later Blaine was lying in bed, not quite asleep but not fully awake either, when his phone buzzed with a new text message.

He fumbled for it and saw that it was two in the morning, and that the text was from Kurt.

_Are you sleeping right now?_

He smiled as he typed a reply. _no but i should be. and so should you. what’s up?_

_Inexplicable desire for Fro-Yo. Any chance you’d meet me?_

Suddenly Blaine wasn’t tired at all.

_there is every chance. give me ten minutes._

\--

They met up outside the coffee place between their apartments, and walked together to the twenty-four hour place that served frozen yogurt.

“Everything okay?” Blaine asked, since it wasn’t exactly a typical excursion.

“Oh, everything’s fine. I just couldn’t sleep. Too much thinking, I guess,” Kurt said. 

Blaine could tell there was more to it than that, but he could also tell that Kurt would explain when and if he wanted to.

As they rounded the corner, Kurt looked at him and said, “This is what I love about New York. It’s two in the morning and I have a ravenous craving for Fro-Yo that can be satiated in a matter of minutes. Amazing.”

“You know what I love about New York?”

Sharing it with the person I love, Blaine thought.

Instead he just said, “Everything.”

Kurt looked at him skeptically. “Even the homeless man who hangs around outside Banh mi Zon?”

“You mean Frank? I love that guy!”

“Blaine, he spit on you for giving him a leftover egg roll. You were so freaked out you refused to walk down that side of 6th at all for two weeks.”

“Bygones. We're buddies now. I won him over with my charm... and ten dollars.”

There was a line when they got to Yo-Yo’s—fellow insomniacs or drunk kids acting on impulse cravings, probably—but they managed to grab a table to themselves.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said at Thanksgiving,” Kurt said.

“About how your stuffing was so good it might literally kill me?” he said. “Because I was just abusing the word ‘literally’ with that. I didn’t mean it.”

Kurt looked down into his cup. “Not that. What you said about being thankful for New York. And for us for being here with you,” he said. “I want you to know that I am, too. Thankful.”

There was something a little vulnerable in his expression. He looked like he wanted to say more, but he just closed his mouth instead.

Blaine smiled at him. “For me?”

“For you,” Kurt said, and now he was smiling too.

It was raining when they left—not too hard, but cold, and without thinking Blaine snatched Kurt’s hand, half-running in the direction of Kurt’s apartment. Kurt followed, and they were laughing, and it was two in the morning and they were in New York and it was perfect. Everything felt perfect.

They didn’t stop until they were standing by the stoop of Kurt’s apartment building. The rain was still coming down all around them.

“I guess I should go home,” Blaine said eventually.

Kurt was still holding on to his hand. It was warm; it was the only warmth in all of this cold. “I guess you should,” he said.

He leaned forward and kissed Kurt then, and that was what it felt like—like coming home.

Kurt’s mouth opened under his, yielding, and Blaine slipped an arm around his back, drawing him in closer. When they parted for breath, a half-laugh, half-gasp slid its way out of Blaine's throat.

“I was going to have a speech for this moment,” he said on the tail of a whooshing breath. His whole body was buzzing.

Kurt pushed their foreheads together, opened his eyes. “About what, exactly?”

“You,” he said, “and me.”

“Summarize.”

“I just want to be with you, because everything feels right that way, and because I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life letting you see that.”

The words came out without even having to think about them—they were just there, like. In his heart. Lying in wait.

When he met Kurt’s eyes and saw the way Kurt was looking back at him, like Blaine was the only person in the world who mattered, who even _existed_ , Blaine’s knees almost buckled under the weight of it.

“That’s good,” Kurt said, a little shaky. “Much more eloquent than what I had planned.”

Blaine gripped Kurt’s back tighter. His hair, already mussed from sleep, was unfurling from the rain, and it was trickling under the collar of his coat, down his back, wet and shivery cold. But it didn’t matter. None of it did. Only this.

“You had something planned?” he said, one side of his mouth sliding up in a smile.

“Yes, but then I chickened out. Why else do you think I badgered you out of bed at two in the morning?”

“What was your version, then?”

“Something along the lines of—I’m crazy about you, and I can’t believe how stupid we’ve been about all of this, and can we just stop running in circles already?”

“I like that, too. Much more direct than mine.”

Kurt grabbed the front of his coat then, pulled him closer and sighed against Blaine’s mouth. 

“Come inside,” he said.

Blaine pulled back, just a little. “Are you sure?” he said softly. “I want to, I just— I don’t want to scare you away. I can’t screw this up.”

Kurt’s hands moved up to his cheeks, his thumbs stroking the skin there. “This isn't something you can screw up,” he whispered. “I promise.”

\--

They kissed all the way up two flights of stairs, didn’t stop until they were locked in Kurt’s bedroom, and it wasn’t until Blaine was easing off Kurt’s outer layers that he realized he had a scarf wound around his neck. Not just any scarf. The one Blaine had given him before he first left for New York.

“You kept this?” he said, looking down at it.

Kurt gave him a _duh_ look. “You gave it to me,” he said. “Of course I kept it.”

He pulled Blaine down to the bed with him, their legs tangled together, tugging off their clothes in the dark, grabbing desperately at each other. Even after all this time, Blaine’s hands knew what to do—where to touch. How to make Kurt gasp and cry out and his hips buck and his toes curl. All Blaine could hear was Kurt’s labored breathing and the rush of his own blood through his ears.

“If we go any further, your neighbors are going to get a show,” Blaine murmured into his shoulder.

Kurt’s hand came up behind his neck, fingers curling in the soft damp hair there. “Well, we are performers, aren’t we?”

\--

The neighbors got a show.

And an encore. Once more with feeling.

\--

“How did you know you loved me?” Blaine asked.

His voice was low, confessional in the dark. It felt like whatever they said here would be safe, just between the two of them, and they could say anything.

“I used to think it was the first day we met,” Kurt said after a minute. “Love at first sight, that whole cliché. But now… I think it was prom. The first one, when you asked me to dance.”

Blaine nuzzled into Kurt’s neck, closed his eyes. “I was scared out of my mind.”

“I know. I knew it then, too. But you did it anyway, for me. It’s like… like you were the only light in a dark room, and I just knew. It had to be love.”

It was love back then, and it was love now, even stronger than before. Kurt could do anything, and Blaine would love him in spite of it all, and because of it all, and no matter what happened.

\--

In the morning they walked to the diner holding hands. The sun was out, the birds were singing—well, all right, Blaine couldn’t hear any over the traffic, but he knew they were chirping away somewhere, maybe in Tompkins Square Park. It was one of those rare perfect moments in life, where he was exactly where he was meant to be, and exactly with who he was supposed to be with. Everything was just… perfect.

He could tell Kurt was feeling it too. He kept looking over at Blaine in this sweetly shy way that reminded him of how it’d been when they’d first gotten together. When everything was still new and exciting, when every little touch left Blaine a bit breathless, every glimpse loaded with the knowledge that his own happiness was equally shared.

Rachel and Santana were already seated at their regular table when they arrived. As they approached, still hand in hand, Santana hurled a few cat-calls their way while Rachel bounced up and down in her seat. Kurt lifted his chin, shy affection melting away to haughtiness, but clasped Blaine’s hand tighter. Blaine squeezed back.

“About freaking time you two got your shit together,” Santana remarked as they sat.

“Why Santana,” Blaine said, “you almost sound like you’re happy for us.”

She snorted. “Please. _I_ am only happy I don’t have to see you walking around making those kicked puppy eyes twenty-four seven anymore. It’s nauseating. I’ve thrown up more watching you two idiots dance around each other for the past couple of months than I did that time Coach Sylvester put the Cheerios on a regimen of raw eggs, vinegar, and tapeworms.”

Kurt promptly dropped his menu. “Well, there goes my appetite.”

“I just want to say, I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I’ve decided that when the time comes I will be honored to give you the honor of having me as your surrogate,” Rachel said. “You’ll have to wait, of course, until I’m finished with my inevitable Tony-award winning starring turn in the revival of Evita, but if after that I don’t have any better offers, my uterus is all yours.”

“Seriously, do you want me to never eat again?” Kurt moaned. “My life is an endless cycle of torment.”

Blaine rubbed his thumb across the back of Kurt’s hand and smiled at Rachel. “That’s very, um, generous of you Rachel, but we’re not thinking quite that far ahead yet.”

Thankfully the waitress came up to the table before Rachel could press the issue any further. Blaine couldn’t decide on one thing, so he ended up asking for the strawberry pancakes, tempeh bacon, two fried eggs and an English muffin with orange juice; everyone stared at him after he’d rattled off his order.

“Even Finn would be impressed by that,” Kurt commented.

“Don’t judge me,” Blaine said. “I could eat a horse right now.”

Santana smirked. “I think you’d have to go to Chinatown for that.”

He had to let go of Kurt’s hand once the food came so he could hold his fork, but they locked ankles under the table instead, feet swinging lightly back and forth. The food was good—the food at Birdie’s was _always_ good, but today especially so. Maybe it was because of the sex, or the way Kurt’s foot rubbed against his calf. Or Blaine’s fantastic mood. Though those were all directly correlated anyway. 

Rachel and Kurt babbled about their classes, and Santana recounted her latest one night stand, some tattoo artist from Bushwick with a piercing in a place when revealed left everyone recoiling in horror, especially once Santana extolled in detail on the benefits of having one in such a place for certain activities. Aside from that unwanted anecdote, however, it was a pleasant breakfast. For the most part Blaine was content to sit back, shovel down his food, and quietly observe. These were his friends, and they were happy, and he was happy.

He plucked one of the strawberries off his plate of pancakes and held it up to Kurt, who automatically leaned over and bit into it. They locked eyes, Kurt smiling around the fruit, and Blaine’s stomach did this wonderful fluttery thing.

Yes. Definitely happy.

“Ugh, is this how it’s going to be from now on? That is just disgusting.” Santana looked at them with open disdain as she crumpled up her napkin and threw it on the table. “Okay, I’m out of here. I have to go pick up Mrs. Grayson’s rat-faced mutt. Besides, with the way you two are glowing, if I stick around any longer I’m going to get radioactive poisoning.”

“I have to go too,” Rachel said, licking the last crumbs of her vegan muffin from her fingers. “I’m supposed to meet Sawyer at the MoMA. He asked me to accompany him to this De Kooning retrospective they’re featuring. Apparently his work is exquisite.” Off of Kurt and Blaine’s curious looks, she added quickly, “It’s not a date! It’s just two people… spending a day together. Platonically.”

She looked too flustered to actually believe her own words.

“Mmhm,” Kurt said, eyeing her over his coffee knowingly. “I won’t wait up for you.”

Rachel opened and closed her mouth a few times like a gaping fish, but could come up with no response. She then turned to Santana. “You’re going uptown too, aren’t you? Do you want to walk with me?”

Santana looked caught off-guard, but only for a moment. “Sure, what the hell,” she said with a shrug. “Why not?”

They left together, Kurt and Blaine staring after, equally dumbfounded. 

“You know, Santana didn’t insult Rachel once this morning,” Blaine pointed out. 

“I noticed,” Kurt said. “And they didn’t throttle each other before we got here.”

“Do you think they’re—”

“Friends?”

They pondered this startling development in mutual silence.

“This must be a sign of the apocalypse,” Kurt finally stated. He peered out the window onto the street. “How is it not raining fire?”

“Let’s not talk about it. I feel like that’ll jinx it,” Blaine said. 

“Good thinking.” Kurt nodded and took another small bite of his avocado toast. “Actually, I was going to say, Rachel reminded me—the MoMA brought back the McQueen exhibit. We _have_ to check it out.”

“Could we do it later this week?” Blaine asked. “I thought maybe we could have other plans for today.”

Kurt raised an eyebrow. “What did you have in mind?”

“Going back to your place and spending the entire day in bed,” he confessed. No point in beating around the bush.

“That,” Kurt said, “is the best idea you have ever had.”

\--

The night before, right before drifting into sleep, the worry had crossed Blaine’s mind that come morning, there’d be regrets. That Kurt would change his mind or write it all off as a mistake. But that hadn’t happened. Every time he looked at Kurt, Blaine only saw his own giddiness reflected back at him like a mirror.

He couldn’t exactly explain it, but he knew, deep down in his bones, that somehow this time it was going to work.

As they walked back to the apartment, he slipped his hand into Kurt’s and started singing a few bars of an old Sting song that’d been stuck in his head, just because he felt like it. No one looked twice at them. Two boys holding hands wasn’t a remarkable sight in this neighborhood. The singing, maybe, a little more unusual, but this was New York—it wasn’t that strange.

He broke off mid-chorus when he realized Kurt was staring at him oddly. “What?” he said, half-laughing. 

“I just realized I haven’t heard you sing in a really long time,” Kurt explained. “I missed it.”

“Well, I will give you private serenades any time you want. On the house. I’ll even take requests. Consider it a perk of having me as your boyfriend.”

The word slipped out before he could think about it. They’d barely discussed this, and here he was getting ahead of himself, putting labels on something Kurt might not be ready for—but Kurt only smiled back at him. So maybe that was okay.

“Do you ever miss it?” Kurt asked. “Performing, I mean.”

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “I actually saw this flyer for one of the NYU male a capella groups the other day. They’re holding auditions next week. I was considering trying out.”

“You should!” Kurt said a little too excitedly, his eyes wide. He paused, visibly reigning himself in. “Only if that’s what you want, of course.”

“I think I just might,” he said. He stopped and drew Kurt over to the curb, tugging him in close. “It’s worth a shot. The universe has been very generous to me lately.”

Kurt held up their hands and gazed at where their fingers were entwined. “Tell me about it,” he said with a breathy little laugh. He looked at Blaine now. “I never thought I could have all this. I almost feel like I shouldn’t be allowed. It’s too much.”

“What is?”

“Everything. New York. NYADA. God help me, Rachel Berry. And the obvious.”

“A boyfriend?”

“Not just any boy. You. When I thought about it, it was always you.”

Blaine had to remember to suck in a breath before he could speak again. “I’m glad to hear it, because you’re kind of stuck with me,” he said, voice wavering ever so slightly. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Kurt stepped forward so his mouth ghosted right over Blaine’s. “I can live with that,” he said, and then leaned in all the way to kiss him.

Blaine closed his eyes and kissed him back, and right there on the crowded sidewalk, in this new, bustling city so far away from everything he knew, it felt like home.

**Author's Note:**

> My endless thanks to kaley for helping me every step of the way with this-- it seriously would have languished forever if I didn't have her pushing me along. 
> 
> There may be some inaccuracies about NYC life/NYU/East Village geography; I tried to be generally true to life and actually look shit up, but I might've gotten some things wrong or just glossed over them for the sake of the story. And sorry that this story is so long and so skimpy on the sex. Smut is just not my forte.


End file.
